I am Happy to Publish Another Chapter of The Wandless Archmage
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Harry woke up and went to the kitchen to make breakfast, cracking eggs into the hot fat, moving quietly. A moon's turn had passed since the incident with Dudley, and the house had settled into a strange new rhythm. The Dursleys no longer shouted at him. Petunia no longer found fault with every task he performed.
They simply... avoided him.
Vernon sat at the head of the table like a lord in his hall, his florid face hidden behind the Daily Mail, saying nothing. Petunia sipped her tea and stared out the window at Number Five's perfectly trimmed hedges, her mouth pressed into a thin, bloodless line. Dudley hunched over his cereal like a wounded animal, eyes fixed on his bowl, positioning himself as far from Harry as the dimensions of the table would allow.
It should have felt like victory.
Instead, it felt lonely.
Harry slid scrambled eggs onto plates, three portions, none for himself, and set them on the table without a word. No one thanked him. He might as well have been a ghost haunting Privet Drive, visible only when convenient.
He had just turned back to the stove to begin the washing up when the doorbell rang.
Vernon's newspaper crinkled as he lowered it, scowling with the particular displeasure of a man whose morning routine has been disrupted. "Who the devil is calling at this hour?"
It was barely nine in the morning, though to Vernon any visitor before noon was an unconscionable intrusion.
Petunia's lips pursed like a drawstring pulled tight. "Perhaps it's the postman."
"I'll open it." Vernon heaved himself up from his chair with a grunt, his considerable bulk making the floorboards creak, and stomped toward the front door.
Harry heard the door open, then Vernon's booming voice rolling through the house like thunder: "Yes? What do you want?"
A high, pleasant voice responded, somewhat muffled by distance but unmistakably cheerful. "Good morning! I'm here to speak with Mr. Harry Potter. Is he available?"
Silence.
Then Vernon, cold and clipped as winter frost: "There's no one here by that name."
"Oh, I rather think there is." The voice remained cheerful, unbothered, with the confidence of someone holding all the cards in a game. "Would you mind if I came in? It's rather important."
"Listen here, I don't know what sort of..."
"I'm afraid I must insist."
There was something in those polite words that made Harry stop stirring the eggs and turn toward the hallway.
Vernon's voice dropped to a hiss, low and venomous. "We don't want your kind here. We don't want anything to do with."
"Mr. Dursley." The pleasant tone had sharpened just slightly. "I am a professor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and I am here on official business regarding Mr. Potter's education. Now, you may either invite me inside, or I can conduct this conversation on your doorstep where all your neighbors can hear. Your choice."
A long pause.
Then Vernon's voice, strained: "Fine. But make it quick."
Footsteps approached the living room. Harry turned off the stove and moved to the kitchen doorway, his heart beginning to race.
A man appeared in the hallway. He was barely taller than Harry, with a shock of white hair, a pointed beard, and eyes that twinkled with what looked like perpetual amusement. He wore a neat tweed suit that looked oddly old-fashioned, and he carried a leather briefcase.
Vernon loomed behind him, his face already purpling. Petunia had gone pale.
The small man's gaze found Harry immediately, and his expression brightened.
"Ah! Mr. Potter, I presume?" He crossed the room with surprising speed and extended a hand. "Professor Filius Flitwick. Delighted to meet you at last."
Harry shook his hand automatically, too stunned to speak. The professor's grip was firm and warm.
"Perhaps we could sit?" Flitwick glanced around the living room, then at Vernon. "This won't take long, Mr. Dursley, but it is rather important."
Vernon's jaw worked like he was chewing glass. "The boy has chores."
"I'm sure they can wait." Flitwick's smile didn't waver. "Shall we?"
For a moment, Vernon looked like he might refuse. Then his gaze flicked to Harry, and something, maybe fear, crossed his face.
"Fine. Living room. Five minutes."
Flitwick settled himself into an armchair. Harry perched on the edge of the sofa, hands clasped between his knees. Vernon remained standing near the doorway, arms crossed. Petunia hovered behind him, wringing her hands.
"Now then." Flitwick set his briefcase on his lap and opened it. "Mr. Potter, I have something for you."
He withdrew a thick envelope made of yellowish parchment. It was sealed with a blob of purple wax stamped with a coat of arms: a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake surrounding a large letter H.
Flitwick handed it to Harry.
The envelope was addressed in emerald green ink:
Mr. H. Potter
The Cupboard Under the Stairs
4 Privet Drive
Little Whinging
Surrey
Harry stared at it. His fingers trembled slightly as he broke the seal.
Inside were two sheets of parchment. The first read:
HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
Dear Mr. Potter,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry...
The words blurred. Harry's heart was pounding so hard he could barely think.
"I—I don't understand," he said quietly.
"You're a wizard, Mr. Potter." Flitwick's voice was gentle. "Hogwarts is a school for young witches and wizards. We teach magic, spells, potions, transfiguration, and much more. Term begins on the first of September."
Harry looked up sharply. "Magic."
"Yes."
"Real magic."
Flitwick's eyes twinkled. "The very realest kind."
Vernon made a strangled noise. "Now see here."
"This is absurd," Petunia cut in, her voice shrill. "There's no such thing as, as magic."
"Mrs. Dursley." Flitwick turned to her with a patient expression. "I suspect you know better than that. Your sister attended Hogwarts, did she not?"
Petunia's mouth snapped shut. Her face had gone from pale to blotchy red.
Harry's mind was reeling. The weeds. The lock. The warm.
"That's what it is," he said, more to himself than anyone else. "That's what I've been doing."
Flitwick nodded approvingly. "Precisely. You've been performing accidental magic, at Hogwarts, you'll learn to control it."
"He's not going," Vernon said flatly.
Flitwick turned to him, still smiling, but the warmth had left his eyes. "I'm afraid that's not your decision to make, Mr. Dursley."
"He lives under my roof."
"And he is a wizard under the jurisdiction of the Ministry of Magic and the governance of Hogwarts School. His place has been reserved since birth." Flitwick's tone was still polite, but utterly unyielding. "He will attend."
Vernon opened his mouth, then closed it. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, but he said nothing.
Flitwick turned back to Harry, and there was something almost fatherly in his expression. "Now, you'll need supplies, books, robes, a wand. The list is included in your letter, every item detailed and accounted for. I've been asked by Headmaster Dumbledore to escort you to Diagon Alley today, if you're amenable to the arrangement."
"Why you?" The words slipped out before Harry could stop them, before the part of his mind that had learned caution could clamp down on his tongue. "I mean, sorry, I just."
Flitwick chuckled, a sound like wind chimes on a summer breeze. "To be honest, I'm not entirely certain myself. Professor Dumbledore simply said I was the right person for the task."
Harry thought of the hours spent alone in the darkness, teaching himself what no one else would teach him.
"So," Flitwick continued, "what do you say, Mr. Potter? Shall we go collect your school things? See the sights? Enter your inheritance?"
Harry looked at the letter in his hands, that heavy parchment that felt like destiny made tangible. At the professor's kind, the face of a man who had no reason to be kind to him but was anyway. At Vernon's furious expression, all purple jowls and bulging eyes. At Petunia's tight-lipped silence.
He thought about the cupboard under the stairs. The locked doors and barricaded furniture. The years of being told he was nothing, worth nothing.
And now this.
This is an offer of something more.
"Yes," Harry said, and his voice came out stronger than he'd expected, steadier. "Yes, please. I'd like that very much."
Flitwick beamed like a sunrise breaking over mountains. "Excellent! We'll leave within the hour or faster if you gather whatever you might need, say your farewells."
"Okey i will be ready right now." Harry had nothing to gather, no farewells to say that would be returned.
Vernon made one last attempt, heaving himself forward in his chair. "Now wait just a minute."
"Mr. Dursley," Flitwick said quietly, "I strongly suggest you do not interfere with matters beyond your understanding. Hogwarts has claimed this boy, as is its right. Good day to you."
And with that, he turned back to Harry, his smile warm once more, all sunshine and welcome.
"Go collect whatever you need, Mr. Potter. Taxi is waiting outside. Today, you enter the wizarding world. Today, you come home."
"Professor. I'm ready to go."
The taxi ride to London passed in a blur. Harry sat pressed against the window, watching the suburbs give way to the city, while Professor Flitwick hummed quietly beside him.
"I must confess," Flitwick said as they merged into traffic, "I'm not terribly fond of Apparition for long distances. Too much spinning for my taste. Taxis are far more civilized, don't you think?"
Harry had no idea what Apparition was, but he nodded anyway.
They drove deep into London, past shops and office buildings, until the taxi pulled up to a particularly grimy stretch of street. Harry peered out the window, confused. There was a bookshop on one side, a record shop on the other, and between them... nothing. Just a gap.
"Here we are," Flitwick said cheerfully, paying the driver.
Harry climbed out, looking around. "Where?"
"Right there." Flitwick pointed at the gap, except it wasn't a gap anymore. Now Harry could see it: a shabby little pub squeezed between the shops, so dark and uninviting it seemed to repel attention. A battered sign hung above the door: The Leaky Cauldron.
"How did I not..."
"Muggles can't see it," Flitwick explained, leading Harry toward the door. "Quite useful, really. Keeps things private."
He pushed the door open.
Warmth and noise spilled out. The pub was small and shabby, lit by flickering candles despite the daylight outside. Wizards and witches crowded around wooden tables, some in robes, some in pointed hats, one old man smoking a pipe that blew purple smoke rings shaped like cats.
A few heads turned as Harry entered. Then a few more.
Someone gasped.
"Blimey," a witch whispered. "Is that?"
"Harry Potter," another voice breathed.
Flitwick's hand pressed gently against Harry's back, urging him forward. "Keep moving, Mr. Potter. Best not to linger."
But people were standing now, craning their necks to see. An old wizard in emerald robes hurried over, his hand outstretched.
"Mr. Potter! What an honor! I'm Dedalus Diggle, we met once before, though you were only a baby."
"Yes, yes, lovely to see you, Dedalus." Flitwick steered Harry past him with surprising firmness. "We're on a schedule, I'm afraid."
They wove through the crowd, Flitwick nodding politely but not stopping. Harry caught fragments of whispers, "the scar," "can't believe it," "so small."
Finally, they reached a door at the back of the pub. Flitwick opened it, and they stepped out into a small, enclosed courtyard. Nothing but brick walls and a few trash bins.
Harry's confusion must have shown, because Flitwick smiled.
"Watch carefully, Mr. Potter. You'll need to remember this."
He pulled out a wand, made of some pale wood, and tapped a specific brick three up and two across from the trash bin.
Nothing happened.
Then the brick he'd touched wiggled.
Harry blinked.
The brick wiggled again, then sank back into the wall. The bricks around it began to move, shifting, sliding, rearranging themselves like a puzzle solving itself. The hole in the wall grew wider, the bricks forming an archway.
Harry's breath caught.
Beyond the arch was a street.
Not just any street. A magical street.
Shops lined both sides, their windows crammed with impossible things. A stack of cauldrons in every size, from thimble-small to bathtub-large. Owls of every color perched in cages, hooting softly. Books that fluttered their pages. Robes that seemed to shimmer and change color. Broomsticks displayed like works of art.
Witches and wizards bustled past, their robes swishing, their voices mingling into a cheerful cacophony. A child zoomed by on a toy broomstick that hovered two feet off the ground. Somewhere, music played lively and strange, like nothing Harry had ever heard.
The sign above the archway read: Diagon Alley.
Harry took a step forward, then stopped, completely overwhelmed.
"It's..." He couldn't find words. "It's all real."
"Very real," Flitwick said gently. He stood beside Harry, watching him with a knowing smile. "I remember the first time I saw it. Well, I was raised in the wizarding world, so perhaps not quite the same. But I imagine it must be rather extraordinary for someone who didn't know any of this existed."
"I thought," Harry swallowed hard. "I thought that there was something wrong with me."
Flitwick's expression softened. "Oh, my dear boy. There is nothing wrong with you. You're a wizard. You always have been."
Harry looked at the street again at the shops, the people, the magic everywhere, and something tight in his chest began to loosen.
"Come along," Flitwick said, his voice warm. "We've much to do today. First stop: Gringotts. You'll need money for your supplies."
Harry nodded, still staring.
Flitwick paused at the threshold, then turned back to Harry with that twinkling smile.
"Welcome, Mr. Potter," he said softly, "to the wizarding world."
And together, they stepped through the archway into a world where Harry belonged.
The white building towered over everything else in Diagon Alley.
It was enormous three stories at least with bronze doors that gleamed in the sunlight. Flanking the entrance stood a creature Harry had never seen before: short, with a swarthy, clever face, pointed ears, and long fingers. It wore a uniform of scarlet and gold.
Harry stopped walking. "What is that?"
"A goblin," Flitwick said. "Goblins run Gringotts. Best bank in the world, wizarding or otherwise. I wouldn't trust my gold anywhere else."
They climbed the white stone steps. The goblin watched them approach with dark, intelligent eyes but said nothing. As they reached the doors, Harry noticed words engraved in the stone above:
Enter, stranger, but take heed
Of what awaits the sin of greed...
The warning continued, but Flitwick was already pushing through the doors, and Harry hurried after him.
Inside was even more impressive.
The hall was vast, with a ceiling so high that Harry had to crane his neck to see it. The floor was polished marble, and a long counter ran the length of the room. Behind it sat dozens more goblins, perched on high stools, weighing coins on scales, examining jewels through eyeglasses, scribbling in enormous ledgers.
"Bloody hell," Harry whispered.
Flitwick's lips twitched. "Quite. Come along."
They approached the nearest free goblin, who looked up from his ledger with an expression of polite impatience.
"Yes?"
"Good morning," Flitwick said. "We'd like to make a withdrawal from the Potter vault, please."
The goblin's eyes sharpened. His gaze flicked to Harry, lingering on his scar for a fraction of a second.
"Mr. Potter," the goblin said, inclining his head slightly. "I am Griphook. Do you have your key?"
Harry opened his mouth, then closed it. He didn't have a key.
"I have it here." Flitwick produced a small golden key from his pocket. "Professor Dumbledore has been holding it in trust. He asked me to return it to Mr. Potter today."
Griphook took the key, examined it closely, then nodded. "Everything appears to be in order. Follow me, please."
He hopped down from his stool and led them through a door to the side of the hall. Beyond was a narrow stone passageway lit by flaming torches. The air grew cooler as they descended.
They reached a platform where a small cart sat on rails that disappeared into darkness.
"Climb in," Griphook said.
Harry and Flitwick squeezed into the cart. It was cramped and smelled faintly of metal and earth. Griphook climbed into the front, pressed something, and the cart launched forward.
Harry's stomach lurched as they plummeted into the tunnel, twisting left, then right, then dropping so steeply Harry was certain they were going to crash. Wind whipped his hair. The torches on the walls blurred into streams of light.
He gripped the edge of the cart, his heart hammering, but he was grinning.
This was brilliant.
They hurtled past underground lakes, around impossible corners, through caverns so vast Harry couldn't see the ceiling. Finally, the cart began to slow.
It stopped with a jolt outside a small door set into the rock. Vault 687.
Griphook ran his finger down the door, and it melted away, revealing the inside.
Harry climbed out of the cart on shaky legs and stared.
Gold.
Piles and piles of gold coins, glittering in the torchlight. Silver coins too, and bronze ones, heaped in small mountains across the vault floor. There were other things as well a few leather pouches, what looked like ancient jewelry, a stack of documents tied with ribbon.
"I don't" Harry's voice came out hoarse. "The Dursleys said my parents left me nothing."
Flitwick's expression hardened for just a moment. Then it softened as he looked at Harry.
"Your parents left you quite well provided for, Mr. Potter."
Harry stepped into the vault, his hands trembling. He picked up a gold coin it was heavy.
"What are these?"
"Galleons," Flitwick said, pointing to the gold. "The large gold coins. Seventeen silver Sickles to a Galleon, and twenty-nine Knuts the bronze ones to a Sickle. Here." He handed Harry a small leather pouch with a drawstring. "Fill this. It should be more than enough for your school supplies, with plenty left over."
Harry knelt and began scooping coins into the pouch, still half-convinced this was a dream. The Dursleys had given him nothing not even pocket money for school trips. And now he was rich?
"Don't take too much," Flitwick advised gently. "Best not to walk around Diagon Alley with a fortune on you. Security, you understand."
Harry nodded and tied the pouch shut. It was heavy, reassuringly so.
They climbed back into the cart. This time, as it rocketed upward through the tunnels, Harry found his voice.
"Professor Flitwick?"
"Yes, Mr. Potter?"
"What were my parents like?"
The cart rattled and swayed, but Flitwick's expression remained steady, thoughtful.
"Were they... good people?"
Flitwick looked at him then, and his eyes were kind.
"They were brave, Mr. Potter. Very brave. And they loved you very much. More than anything in the world."
"Your father was brilliant at Transfiguration. Your mother... Lily was one of the brightest witches of her age. Exceptional at Charms." He smiled. "She had a gift for it. A natural talent."
Something hot and tight lodged in Harry's throat. He looked down at the pouch in his hands, blinking hard.
No one had ever said that to him before.
"Thank you," Harry whispered.
Flitwick nodded, and they rode the rest of the way in comfortable silence.
When they emerged back into the marble hall, Harry tucked the pouch carefully into his pocket. It felt like more than just money.
It felt like proof.
Proof that he'd had parents who loved him. Proof that he mattered. Proof that the Dursleys had been lying all along.
And as they stepped back out into the sunlight of Diagon Alley, Harry decided he would never let anyone make him feel worthless again.
They moved through Diagon Alley like tourists in a dream.
First stop: Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. The shop was warm and smelled of fabric and lavender. A squat witch with a kind smile bustled over the moment they entered.
"Hogwarts, dear?" she asked Harry.
"Yes, ma'am."
"First year? Lovely. Up on the stool, then."
Harry climbed onto a footstool while Madam Malkin draped a long black robe over him and began pinning the hem. She worked efficiently, asking only practical questions"Arms up, dear," "Turn slightly" without prying into who he was or why his clothes were three sizes too large.
Harry was grateful.
"Three sets of work robes," Flitwick said from where he browsed a display of pointed hats. "One set of dress robes for formal occasions. And perhaps a winter cloak, Hogwarts can be drafty."
"Very sensible," Madam Malkin agreed.
When she finished, Harry had a stack of neatly folded robes, his first clothes that actually fit. Flitwick paid "Hogwarts fund, don't worry" and they moved on.
At the apothecary, Harry stared at shelves crammed with jars of bizarre ingredients: powdered dragon claw, pickled slugs, lacewing flies. The shopkeeper, a stooped wizard with a permanent squint, measured out ingredients from Harry's supply list while muttering under his breath.
They bought a pewter cauldron from a shop where dozens hung from the ceiling like strange metallic fruit. A brass telescope that collapsed into something pocket-sized. Scales, phials, a basic potion-making kit.
Each shop they entered, heads turned. Whispers followed.
"Is that?"
"The scar."
"Harry Potter, I'd recognize him anywhere."
Harry kept his head down and let Flitwick do the talking.
Flourish and Blotts was his favorite.
The bookshop was packed floor to ceiling with volumes of every size and color. Some books snapped at passersby. Others hummed quietly. One flew in lazy circles near the ceiling.
Flitwick consulted Harry's supply list and began pulling books from the shelves: The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1, A History of Magic, Magical Theory, One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi.
"These are your required texts," Flitwick said, stacking them on the counter. Then he paused, glancing at Harry thoughtfully. "Though, if you're interested, there are a few supplementary books that might be useful."
He pulled down three more volumes: A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration, The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection, and Quintessence: A Quest.
"These go beyond first-year material," Flitwick explained. "But they're excellent for students with... natural curiosity."
Harry looked at the books. He'd never owned a book before. At school, they'd all been borrowed, shared, returned. The Dursleys certainly never bought him anything.
"How much?"
Flitwick named the price. Harry hesitated, then pulled coins from his pouch.
"I'll take them all."
Flitwick's smile widened. "Excellent choice, Mr. Potter. I teach Charms at Hogwarts, you know. You'll be in my class. I look forward to seeing what you can do."
They passed Eeylops Owl Emporium, where dozens of owls hooted from their perches, snowy, barn, and screech owls in every shade.
"You're allowed a familiar at Hogwarts," Flitwick mentioned. "An owl, a cat, or a toad. Owls are particularly useful they deliver post."
Harry stopped, watching a sleek barn owl preen its feathers. For a moment, he imagined having one. A companion. Something that was truly his.
Then he thought of the Dursleys' faces if he brought an owl home to Privet Drive.
"Maybe later," Harry said quietly. "I don't think it's necessary, you know? All of this."
Flitwick nodded, understanding. "Of course. There's no rush."
They continued down the street. A group of witches stopped talking as Harry passed, their eyes fixed on his forehead. One of them gasped.
"The Boy Who Lived," she whispered.
Harry frowned and glanced at Flitwick. "Why do they keep calling me that?"
Flitwick's expression grew serious. He steered Harry toward a quieter corner of the street, away from the crowds.
"What do you know about the night your parents died, Mr. Potter?"
Harry shrugged uncomfortably. "Nothing, really. The Dursleys said it was a car crash."
"It wasn't." Flitwick's voice was gentle but firm. "Your parents were murdered by a very powerful dark wizard. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."
"Who?"
"Most people are too frightened to say his name. But his real name was Voldemort."
"He tried to kill you too," Flitwick continued. "You were only a baby. But somehow, and no one knows exactly how you survived. The curse rebounded. Voldemort was destroyed for what is known. You're the only person ever to survive the Killing Curse."
Harry touched his scar instinctively. "This?"
"Yes. That's why people stare, why they whisper. You're famous, Mr. Potter. You ended a reign of terror. You gave people hope."
Harry looked down at his small, ordinary hands, still scraped from weeks of chores.
"I don't remember any of it."
Flitwick's expression softened. "You were very young. But it is your story, whether you remember it or not. And people will expect things from you because of it." He paused. "My advice? Don't let their expectations define you. You're more than a scar, Mr. Potter. You're a young wizard with your whole education ahead of you. Focus on that."
Harry nodded slowly, grateful.
They resumed walking, and Harry tried to ignore the stares.
The last shop on their list was narrow and shabby, wedged between a cauldron shop and a store selling strange brass instruments. Peeling gold letters over the door read: Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.
A single wand lay on a faded purple cushion in the dusty window.
"Ah," Flitwick said quietly. "The most important purchase."
Harry's stomach fluttered with excitement as they stepped inside.
The shop was small and empty except for a single spindly chair. Thousands upon thousands of narrow boxes were stacked to the ceiling on every wall. The air smelled of old wood.
"Good afternoon."
Harry jumped. He hadn't seen anyone enter, but suddenly an old man stood before them.
"Hello, Mr. Ollivander," Flitwick said pleasantly. "We're here to find Mr. Potter wand."
"Ah, yes. Yes, I thought I'd be seeing you soon, Mr. Potter." Ollivander moved closer, his gaze never leaving Harry's face. "You have your mother's eyes. It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm work."
"You remember that?" Harry asked.
"I remember every wand I've ever sold, Mr. Potter. Every single one." Ollivander's smile was thin and strange. "Your father, now, he favored a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and excellent for transfiguration."
He circled Harry slowly, and Harry resisted the urge to turn and keep him in sight.
"Well, now Mr. Potter. Let me see." A tape measure flew out of Ollivander's pocket and began measuring Harry on its own, shoulder to fingertip, wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, head to toe, even the distance between his nostrils. "Which is your wand arm?"
"Er, right, I think?"
"Hold it out. That's it." The tape measure crumpled to the floor, and Ollivander was already moving toward the shelves, muttering to himself. "Let me see... yes, why not."
He pulled down a box, opened it with reverent care, and withdrew a wand.
"Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. Give it a wave."
Harry took the wand. It felt smooth and cool in his hand. He raised it, gave it a tentative flick.
Nothing happened.
"Hm. No, not quite right." Ollivander plucked it from Harry's hand before he could try again. "Perhaps this one, maple and phoenix feather, seven inches, quite whippy."
Harry waved it. One of the shelves rattled ominously.
Ollivander snatched it back with a sharp intake of breath. "No, no, definitely not."
He tried another. And another.
Ebony and unicorn hair. Holly and dragon heartstring. Cherry and phoenix feather.
Each time, the result was the same: nothing, or worse than nothing. Boxes tumbled. A chair splintered. The window cracked.
The pile of rejected wands on the counter grew higher.
Ollivander's expression shifted from interested to puzzled to increasingly concerned. He moved faster now, pulling boxes down with quick, jerky movements, barely letting Harry hold each wand before whisking it away.
Flitwick stood to the side, his arms crossed, his usual cheerfulness replaced by a deepening frown.
After an hour, after the twentieth wand, or maybe the thirtieth, Harry had lost count, Ollivander stopped.
He stood very still, staring at the pile of wands on the counter.
"Most unusual," he murmured. "Most unusual indeed."
"Perhaps something more exotic?" Flitwick suggested, his voice carefully neutral.
"Yes. Yes, perhaps." Ollivander disappeared into the back of the shop. Harry heard him occasionally cursing softly.
He returned with three boxes, each covered in dust.
"Yew and thestral hair. Very rare. Thirteen inches."
Harry tried it. Nothing.
"Blackthorn and basilisk scale. Eleven and a half inches."
Nothing.
"Elder and rougarou hair. Twelve inches, unyielding."
The wand grew uncomfortably hot in Harry's hand. He dropped it with a yelp, and Ollivander caught it before it hit the floor.
Silence.
Ollivander set the wand down carefully. He looked at Harry for a long moment.
"I'm afraid, Mr. Potter," he said slowly, "that I have no wand for you."
This made Harry feel like all the happiness that he had today was going to end in the baddest way ever.
"What does that mean?"
"It means," Ollivander said, still staring at him with that unnerving intensity, "that none of my wands have chosen you. And a wand must choose its wizard, Mr. Potter. It's not the other way around."
"But," Harry's voice came out small. "Does that mean I can't, I can't go to Hogwarts?"
"Of course you can go to Hogwarts." Flitwick stepped forward quickly, his tone firm. "Mr. Potter will still be attending, Mr. Ollivander. I'll speak with Professor Dumbledore personally about this matter. I'm certain we can find a solution."
Ollivander nodded slowly, though he didn't look away from Harry. "Perhaps. Or perhaps..." He trailed off, then seemed to shake himself. "The wand chooses the wizard, Mr. Potter. Always. But sometimes... sometimes magic works in ways we don't expect. Perhaps your wand simply hasn't found you yet."
"Come along, Mr. Potter," Flitwick said gently, steering him toward the door. "We've had a long day. Let's get you something to eat."
As they stepped out into the late afternoon sunlight, Harry glanced back. Ollivander stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the dim interior, still watching him with those strange, pale eyes.
Harry heard him murmur. "Very curious indeed."
The door closed.
Harry followed Flitwick down the street in silence, his earlier excitement crushed beneath a weight he didn't fully understand.
He had magic. He knew he did. He'd proven it.
So why wouldn't a wand choose him?
"Don't worry, Mr. Potter," Flitwick said quietly. "We'll sort this out."
But as they walked, Harry couldn't think of anything more than the wand.
Harry was still lost in thought, barely watching where he was going, when someone slammed into him.
"Oof!"
He stumbled backward, catching himself against a shop window. A girl about 5-6 years older, had tripped over her own feet and was windmilling her arms to stay upright.
She caught herself at the last second and straightened up, grinning sheepishly.
"Wotcher! Sorry about that, a bit clumsy."
Harry blinked.
The girl had bright purple hair, not dyed but naturally purple, somehow styled in spiky tufts that stuck up in every direction. Her face was round and friendly, her eyes a warm brown, and she wore a band t-shirt under a battered leather jacket despite the summer heat.
"No problem," Harry managed.
"Nymphadora!" A woman's voice, sharp but not unkind, called from behind her. "Do watch where you're going."
The girl, Nymphadora? rolled her eyes dramatically. "It's Tonks, Mum. How many times do I have to tell you?"
A couple approached: a tall, elegant woman with dark hair and striking features, and a cheerful-looking man with sandy hair and laugh lines around his eyes.
"Sorry about my daughter," the man said with a grin. "She inherited my grace. Or lack thereof."
"Ted," the woman sighed, but there was fondness in it.
Flitwick stepped forward, smiling. "No harm done. Good afternoon, Andromeda, Ted. Lovely to see you both."
"Professor Flitwick!" The woman, Andromeda, inclined her head politely. "What a pleasant surprise."
Then Tonks's gaze fixed on Harry's forehead, and her eyes went wide.
"Blimey," she breathed. "You're Harry Potter!"
"Nymphadora!" Andromeda looked mortified. "That's terribly rude."
"It's fine," Harry said quickly, though he felt his face heating. "And, um, yeah. I am."
"Don't stare, sweetheart," Ted said gently, putting a hand on Tonks's shoulder. "I'm sure Mr. Potter gets quite enough of that."
"Right, yeah, sorry." Tonks didn't look particularly sorry, she looked fascinated. "Is this your first time in Diagon Alley?"
Harry nodded.
"First time in the wizarding world?" Her voice rose with excitement. "That's mental! What do you think? Isn't it brilliant?"
"Nymphadora," Andromeda warned.
But Harry found himself smiling despite everything. There was something infectious about Tonks's enthusiasm, something that made the hollow feeling from Ollivanders recede just a little.
"It's... yeah. It's brilliant."
"What's it like living with Muggles?" Tonks leaned forward eagerly. "Do you have a telly? What about a car? Can you drive?
"Nymphadora, breathe," Ted said, amused.
"Tonks," she corrected automatically, then turned back to Harry. "Sorry, I get carried away. Mum says I don't have an off switch."
"Your mother is correct," Andromeda said.
Flitwick chuckled. "Miss Tonks is starting her last year at Hogwarts this September, Mr. Potter. Hufflepuff house, if I recall correctly?"
"That's right, Professor." Tonks beamed. "Best house, obviously."
"Obviously," Ted said with mock seriousness.
Tonks's eyes lit up suddenly. "Oh! We should get butterbeer! Have you had butterbeer yet, Harry? You haven't, have you? You have to try it—it's amazing. There's this place, Florean Fortescue's, just down the street."
"Nymphadora, I'm not sure Mr. Potter and Professor Flitwick have time."
"We have a bit of time," Flitwick said, checking his pocket watch. "And I could do with something cold. It's been a rather long afternoon."
Andromeda looked uncertain. "We wouldn't want to impose."
"Let the kids be kids, Dromeda," Ted said, slipping an arm around her waist. "When's the last time Nymphadora made a friend who didn't run away screaming after five minutes?"
"Dad!"
"I'm joking. Mostly."
Andromeda sighed, but she was smiling. "Very well. But only for a little while."
Tonks grabbed Harry's arm without warning, already pulling him down the street. "Come on, you're going to love this."
Harry let himself be dragged along, caught off guard by how easy it was. Tonks didn't ask about his scar again, didn't whisper about him being famous.
She just... talked.
"and the ice cream is ridiculous, they have like a hundred flavors, including ones that shouldn't exist, like grass and sardine, don't try the sardine, I made that mistake last year and Fortescue's really nice, he let me try six samples before I picked one."
Behind them, Harry heard Ted chuckle. "She's a force of nature, that one."
"Takes after her father," Andromeda said, but there was warmth in her voice.
Flitwick caught up to Harry, his short legs moving quickly. He gave Harry a small, knowing smile.
"Feeling better, Mr. Potter?"
Harry realized he was. The weight from Ollivanders was still there, but lighter now. Easier to carry.
"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I think so."
Ahead, Tonks was still chattering away, her purple hair bouncing with every step.
Harry felt like maybe this world had room for him after all.
Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour had cheerful striped awnings and small tables set out on the cobblestones. The late afternoon sun cast everything in warm golden light.
They claimed a table near the window. Flitwick ordered butterbeers for Harry and Tonks, "And a small gillywater for me, thank you," then settled himself at the next table over with Andromeda and Ted, giving the younger pair space.
Tonks sprawled in her chair with the ease of someone completely comfortable in her own skin. "So. First day in the wizarding world. How're you holding up?"
"It's... a lot," Harry admitted.
"Yeah, I bet." She grinned. "But brilliant though, right? Wait till you see Hogwarts. The castle's massive like, actually massive. You could explore for seven years and still find new rooms."
"Seven years?"
"That's how long you go to Hogwarts. First year through seventh. I'm starting my last year this September." She said it with a mixture of pride and something that might have been sadness. "Can't believe it's almost over, honestly."
Harry did the math quickly. "So you're eighteen?"
"Yep. Ancient, I know." She laughed. "But don't worry, I'm not one of those stuck-up seventh years who'll ignore you. Hufflepuffs don't do that rubbish."
"Hufflepuff's your house?"
"Best house," Tonks said firmly. "We're loyal, hardworking, and we know how to have a good time. Though obviously, everyone thinks their house is the best. You've got Gryffindor, brave but a bit reckless. Ravenclaw, clever but can be snooty. Slytherin, ambitious but... well, they've got a reputation."
"What kind of reputation?"
Tonks's expression flickered. "Let's just say they produced more than their fair share of dark wizards. But that doesn't mean everyone in Slytherin is evil or anything. Just... complicated."
The butterbeers arrived, tall glasses filled with amber liquid topped with foam. Harry took a cautious sip, and his eyes widened. It was sweet and rich, tasting like caramel and warmth, with just a hint of something buttery that coated his tongue.
"Good, right?" Tonks said, already halfway through hers.
"Really good."
"So what's it like? Living with Muggles?"
Harry shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable. "Boring. Normal."
Tonks's eyes were sharper than her casual tone suggested. "Yeah? They treat you alright?"
"Fine." The lie came automatically.
She didn't push, just nodded and changed the subject. "Well, you'll love Hogwarts. The classes are brilliant, well, most of them. History of Magic is a nightmare, Professor Binns is literally a ghost and he's so boring you'll want to die too. But Defense Against the Dark Arts is amazing. That's my favorite."
"What do you learn?"
"How to protect yourself. Curses, hexes, counter-curses, defensive spells. It's practical stuff, you know? Useful." Her eyes lit up. "We dueled last year, proper dueling, with rules and everything.
"You can duel? Like, fight with magic?"
"Yeah! There's a whole dueling club. You should join when you're older." She paused, then grinned mischievously. "Watch this."
Before Harry could ask what, her nose began to change. It stretched, narrowed, turned slightly upward like a pig's snout, then flattened into a beak-like shape before finally settling back to normal.
Harry's mouth fell open. "How did you?"
"Metamorphmagus." Tonks's hair rippled, shifting from purple to bright red to electric blue before settling back to purple. "I can change my appearance at will. Well, mostly. Sometimes it happens when I'm emotional and I can't control it."
"That's incredible! Can you teach me?"
Tonks laughed. "Nah, sorry. You're born with it, it's genetic. My mum's got Black family blood, and apparently it runs in the line somewhere way back. But don't worry, you'll learn loads of other brilliant stuff. Transfiguration, Charms, making things levitate and explode and turn into other things."
"Explode?"
"Well, not on purpose. Usually." She winked.
Harry found himself grinning despite everything. Tonks had a way of making magic sound not mystical or frightening, but fun.
"What house do you think you'll be in?" she asked.
"I don't know. I don't really know enough about any of them to guess."
"Doesn't matter, really. You'll fit in somewhere. The Sorting Hat figures it out, it's literally a hat that reads your mind and decides where you belong. Bit creepy when you think about it, but it works." She took another swig of butterbeer.
They talked for another twenty minutes about Quidditch (Tonks cheerfully admitted she was rubbish at it: "I can barely walk without tripping, putting me on a broomstick is just asking for disaster").
Flitwick checked his pocket watch and stood. "I'm afraid we should be heading back, Mr. Potter. It's getting late."
Tonks's face fell. "Already?"
Harry felt the same disappointment. He didn't want this to end, didn't want to go back to Privet Drive.
"Well," Tonks said, standing and brushing crumbs off her jeans, "I'll see you at Hogwarts, yeah? First of September. Don't be nervous, you'll be brilliant."
"Thanks," Harry said quietly.
She grinned and held out her fist. Harry stared at it, confused, until she rolled her eyes and bumped it against his knuckles. "Try not to blow anything up before term starts."
Andromeda and Ted approached, both smiling warmly.
"It was lovely to meet you, Harry," Andromeda said. "You're welcome to visit anytime our home is always open."
"Thanks, Mrs. Tonks."
"Just Andromeda, dear."
Ted clapped him gently on the shoulder. "Take care of yourself, kid. And don't let the fame thing get to you."
Harry nodded, throat tight.
As he and Flitwick walked away, bags of school supplies in hand, Harry glanced back once. Tonks waved enthusiastically, her hair flashing blue for just a moment before settling back to purple.
"Miss Tonks seems like a good friend to have," Flitwick observed.
"Yeah," Harry said softly. "She does."
They walked in comfortable silence for a moment before Flitwick spoke again.
"About the wand, Mr. Potter. Don't let it worry you too much. We'll sort it out. Magic has a way of finding its path, even when we don't expect it."
Harry clutched his bags a little tighter, his books, his robes, his letter. And the memory of someone who'd treated him like a normal kid.
For the first time, he was genuinely excited about September 1st.
Whatever happened with the wand, whatever waited for him at Hogwarts, he wasn't facing it alone anymore.
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