"Follow me," Garrick said, eager to continue. He slipped the photo into his pocket and turned away, disappearing behind a stack of wand boxes that hid the back of the shop from anyone not behind the counter.
Ted felt a small pang of disappointment as the old man's words about his mother stopped so abruptly, but he moved after him without delay. Stepping behind the counter, he found himself looking down a long hallway that had no right to exist inside the tiny shop.
It stretched on for more than twenty-five meters, lined on both sides with shelves of long, narrow boxes that radiated heavy waves of magic. At the far end stood Garrick, already waiting at the entrance to a small room.
He had crossed the distance far too quickly. Ted, even with his steady pace, had barely taken five seconds to reach the counter. Garrick should not have been able to walk that far so fast. The oddity did not bother him much. He had long learned to accept magical strangeness without wasting time on unnecessary questions.
Walking down the hallway, he let his gaze move across the boxes. Each one pulsed with magic in a way that seemed almost alive. This had always been strange for him. Ever since his first visit to Ollivanders, he had been able to see magic — literally see it, shining faintly around enchanted objects and spells.
At first, he assumed everyone could do it. But after asking Reynold casually and receiving only confused descriptions of magic as something felt rather than seen, he understood it was not common. A day spent reading at Flourish and Blotts confirmed it further. No book described magic the way he perceived it.
The same was true for his danger sense — another ability no one seemed to recognize or understand.
Another anomaly to add to the list.
When he reached the end of the long corridor, Ted stepped into a small circular room, half the size of his bedroom. The walls rose high above him, blending seamlessly into what looked like a real starry night sky. Cold, distant, yet somehow comforting.
Unlike the rest of the shop, this room was immaculate. Mahogany shelves circled the walls, divided into twelve neatly labelled sections. Elder. Pear. Pine. Fir. Lime. Dozens more. Even the empty shelves bore parchment signs marking the wood they once held.
"Magnificent, isn't it?" Garrick's aged voice drifted through the quiet. He stood in the center of the room, his back still turned. "This was your mother's workshop. Built by the finest dwarves. Enchanted by Elara herself. She adored the enchanted ceiling at Hogwarts. This one is smaller, but better crafted than the version I remember."
Ted stepped closer.
"Come here, young man. Have a look."
At the center of the room, a small circular table stood barely knee-high, hidden from sight until now. Upon it, resting on a grey cushion inside an egg-shaped glass container, was a single wand.
Black. Spiral-carved. Medium length. A silver handle engraved with a stylized Japanese tree.
Ted inhaled sharply. The wand radiated more magic than anything he had ever encountered — more than the Gringotts wards, more than any spell, more than any enchanted object he had studied.
"Her finest creation," Garrick whispered, gaze softening. "Ten and a half inches. Solid. Made from the branch of a cherry tree over a thousand years old. Harvested at full bloom during the night of a lunar eclipse."
Ted said nothing, but his eyes widened slightly. That alone would be considered an impossible find.
"And the core…" Garrick hesitated, as if savoring the memory. "A feather from a fully grown male thestral. A powerful one. Said to be able to turn invisible even to those who have already seen death." His voice carried a note of reverence. "It is the best wand I have ever laid eyes on."
Ted listened silently. He understood enough now to know that each element Garrick described was the kind of rarity that entire books were written about.
"Before she married, she left it here," Garrick continued. "Said that I would know when its rightful owner arrived. And I did. From the moment I saw you two years ago."
Ted's chest tightened.
"Elara's gift for wandmaking was unmatched," Garrick murmured. "But she had another talent. One far rarer."
Ted's head snapped toward him. "What was it, sir?"
"No titles," the old man said gently. "Call me Ollivander. Or Garrick." He rested his fingers lightly on the glass container. "Elara's raw magical ability was only above average. But her mind…" He shook his head with quiet wonder. "Her gift was one of the rarest of all. Prophecy. She could look into the future at will."
Ted stared. "'Is that actually possible? Most books say it's all fakes and madmen.'"
"Oh, it is real," Garrick said without hesitation. "Those who dismiss it do so out of spite or envy."
He lifted the glass cover with delicate care. The wand shimmered like something half-awake. The moment Garrick touched it with the tips of his fingers, a small blast of air burst outward, rattling the nearest shelf.
"Very dangerous, this one," he said calmly. "Extremely loyal. I must have disturbed its sleep."
"'Sleep?'" Ted echoed, doubtful.
"Yes. Sleep." Garrick offered him the wand with both hands. "Wands are alive, in their own way. They won't serve anyone they deem unworthy. And one like this…" His eyes sparkled. "It is half-sentient already. I would not be surprised if it achieves full sentience one day."
Ted's skepticism lingered. "'Alive…?'"
Garrick smiled faintly. "Anyone can make a wand. But very few can craft one. To create a great wand, you must know how to see, speak, and listen. Materials must match as if they chose each other. You cannot guess. There are too many combinations, most of them lethal."
He gestured at the shelves. "There are paths to wandmaking — logic, force, patience. But the greatest path is listening. That is what made the Ollivanders the best in the world. To walk that path, you must hear the materials." His gaze flicked to Ted. "Or see."
Ted felt something shift inside him. 'So it really is an inherent ability… No wonder I never found it in any books. A family secret.'
With a quiet breath, he reached out.
He hesitated only a moment before closing his fingers around the handle, gripping it in the same precise way one might hold a knife.
The reaction was immediate.
Magic surged through him like a flood breaking through a dam. Heat spread from his stomach, rushing up his chest, his throat, down his arms and legs, and into his head. A warm wave — embracing, consuming, grounding him completely.
He closed his eyes.
He felt the magic circulate, then gather, then collapse inward as if drawn into a small, dense point at the center of his chest. For one brief moment, his heart felt impossibly warm, as though someone had cupped it gently in their hands.
And then —
It all vanished.
In its place lingered a faint silhouette: the figure of a woman riding a winged horse, shimmering like the afterimage of a dream. He could almost hear her voice.
"Happy birthday, son."
The image dissolved.
Ted inhaled sharply. His fingers tightened around the wand. When he opened his eyes, he felt something warm slide down his cheek.
For the first time since he was six years old —he was crying.
<================>
Ted wiped away the tears, a mixture of awe, joy, and bittersweet longing for a mother he barely knew. The wand in his hand felt as though it was resonating with a power that had been dormant inside him for years. He looked up at Garrick, who was watching him with a quietly satisfied smile.
"Remarkable, isn't it?" Garrick said softly, breaking the silence. "Elara was really something else. That wand has been waiting for you for a long time, I'm sure of it."
Ted nodded, his gaze never leaving the wand. The magic that had once felt like a wild, untamed beast now seemed calm and responsive, almost eager to move at his command.
"This wand is what we call a custom-made wand," Garrick went on. "Usually, when someone comes to buy a wand, we take their measurements and then test them with a series of close matches. Those wands can work well enough, but they almost never bring out a person's full potential.
"A custom-made wand is different. It's crafted specifically for one witch or wizard by a true wandmaking master. It's tailored not only to their measurements, but to their personality as well. It allows them to make the most of every spell they cast.
"Thestral-hair cores are especially difficult. They're proud, very selective, and incredibly hard to pair with wood. To think that Elara made such a perfect match for you before you were even born…" He studied the wand in Ted's hand, his voice dropping into a thoughtful murmur. "This wand might not even manage a simple Lumos for anyone else. This is beyond my level…"
Ted stayed quiet, letting the words wash over him.
Over the next few hours, Garrick had answered every question he could. Unfortunately, he had never heard the name Bella, leaving Ted without any new lead. Learning about his mother's childhood mattered to him, but Garrick's knowledge faded as soon as she reached Hogwarts.
According to him, sometime near the end of her third year, she changed. Elara became quieter, calmer, and more secretive. She stopped telling him stories about school and buried herself in study. Most of what happened after that remained a mystery even to him.
Many of Ted's questions received no real answer. What did stand out, however, was Garrick's precise memory. The old man could recall the smallest details from decades ago. Ted couldn't help comparing it to his own memory, which was abnormal by any standard.
With everything he had learned so far, Ted finally circled back to a question that had bothered him for a long time: blood status.
At first, he had assumed that old, prestigious magical families were simply hoarding knowledge. They kept advanced spells and rituals to themselves, became stronger over time, and passed that strength down. Hidden information as inherited advantage.
But what he saw now made him reconsider.
Ollivanders was an ancient family. They certainly had secrets and specialized knowledge, but there was something else — something that matched the idea of "blood" much more directly. Inherent traits. The ability to see magic. Their unnaturally sharp memory. Traits that didn't seem taught, but born.
In his experience, people with more power or money almost always convinced themselves they were superior, even if they never lifted a finger to deserve it. Most of his classmates were like that — convinced they were better than anyone who had less. It was worst among the nobility. They grew up being told how "special" they were, and they never stopped believing it.
That attitude alone, though, affected only their behavior, not the shape of an entire society.
If it were simply a matter of wealth and respect, new "pure" families should have appeared more often. Rich families rise all the time. Yet "pureblood" lines almost never changed. It had been hundreds of years since any new one had appeared. That meant something else was at play.
At first, he had concluded it must be secret magic — rituals, knowledge, or techniques passed down in private. Now, the idea of inherited abilities seemed to fit better.
If old wizarding families genuinely possessed rare traits that couldn't be earned, only inherited — like seeing magic or storing impossible amounts of detail in memory — then their sense of superiority, while arrogant, was at least understandable.
It still left him with one problem.
If those abilities really were inherited… how did they appear in the first place?
<==============>
Leaving Ollivanders, Ted stepped back into Diagon Alley. Without really thinking about it, he started walking, letting his feet carry him down the familiar street.
It was already afternoon, and he had no intention of staying the night. He walked halfway along the alley until he passed a small bakery, the smell of pastries and freshly baked bread drifting out through the open windows.
At the edge of the bakery, he turned into a narrow passage tucked between it and a travel agency. The path was so tight that only two people could walk side by side. Ted moved more slowly here, letting his eyes run over the brick walls and cramped side doors on either side.
This was the entrance from Diagon Alley into Lightrate Alley — one of four connected districts alongside Knockturn Alley, Worththyme Alley, and Trigon Alley. Lightrate Alley, also known as Enlightenment Alley, was dedicated almost entirely to knowledge and study.
It was Ted's favorite place in the magical world.
He soon passed the first shop — Seer and Fear — a narrow place painted light blue, with golden stars decorating the front window. He kept going.
After the next corner, the path opened into a small square busy with stalls and vendors. A seasonal market was set up there during the holidays, but Ted barely spared it a glance. That wasn't why he was here.
Cutting across the square, he turned down one of the side streets and stopped in front of a red door squeezed between a small restaurant and a residential building. He pushed it open and stepped into what looked, at first glance, like an ordinary Muggle gym.
He walked up to the front booth and nodded at the wizard sitting behind it.
"Hi, Teddy. Been a while," the man said, grinning. He was in his late twenties, broad-shouldered and muscular. His short black hair was already beginning to thin, and he wore a bright red robe that looked suspiciously like a boxing robe.
"I believe I told you to call me Ted, Mister Jim," Ted replied, expression unchanged. His eyes drifted toward a green-and-red door on the opposite side of the room. "I'd like to use the dojo."
"So you finally got your wand. Anyway, I believe I told you to call me Jimmy," the wizard shot back, still smiling. Then he waved a hand. "Fine, go on. You've got three hours before I close."
Ted placed a single Galleon on the counter without another word, then headed for the door. He stepped through into a medium-sized dojo, the floor covered in runes arranged in precise curved lines.
The entire room stood on a rune circle Jim had invented. It wasn't much to look at, but Ted was impressed. If Jim had been better at marketing, he would probably have been rich by now.
The training room was simple in concept. Anyone standing inside the rune circle gained a defensive shield. If they suffered a fatal blow, the shield would absorb it once and eject them from the circle, treating it as a "death" in a duel. No real harm done — just a very clear failure.
Jim himself was Muggle-born. His father, a heavyweight MMA fighter, had died not long after Jim graduated from Hogwarts. Using his inheritance, Jim made a deal with the building's owner and opened this gym as a memorial to his father. He did not really think through how to make a living from it.
Wizards rarely cared about physical conditioning. Most viewed it as completely unnecessary. When Jim finally opened, he discovered the obvious problem: almost no customers.
So he tried something else.
He began experimenting with rune circles that would protect reckless spellcasters from lethal misfires. Somewhere along the way, he stopped working on the original design and accidentally created this one instead.
Ted could see several ways to build a business around the rune circle, but each of them would take time and constant presence in Diagon Alley — neither of which he had. During his rare visits, he was already stretched thin trying to fit everything he needed to do into a single day. Money, at this point, was no longer an issue. The rune circle was impressive, but firmly off his priority list.
He could have told Jim exactly how to turn it into a successful business, but Ted wasn't that generous. More importantly, he didn't trust anyone enough to hand them such an advantage. In his mind, helping Jim rise too far, too fast, without any leverage of his own would be no different than handing someone a knife and then waiting patiently for it to end up in his back.
In the end, Jim did manage to attract customers. With help from his favorite Hogwarts professor, he reached out to professional duelers and turned the training room into a practice ground. Over time, the gym became one of the more popular professional training locations in the dueling scene. Jim even managed to convince some of them of the value of physical exercise.
None of that, however, was the reason Ted came here.
He had one goal: underage magic.
The Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery stated that witches and wizards under seventeen were not allowed to practice magic outside school. To enforce this, every wand sold to a student was given a Trace — an enchantment that reported any magic cast near it to the local Ministry.
Ted had many rare qualities for his age. Patience was not one of them.
When he wanted something, he wanted it immediately. So as soon as he discovered the existence of the Trace, he took action. Through Reynold, he acquired a dose of Polyjuice Potion and went to Knockturn Alley.
Disguised as an ugly old man, he went into a pub called Sweeping Nightmares and found an information broker. For thirty-five Galleons, he bought the location of a "safe training place" for his imaginary grandson, supposedly a third-year Hogwarts student. He checked the place in person, found it functional, met several duelers, and started training here whenever he had the chance.
Watching duelers practice turned out to be very educational. Their spellwork, movement, and timing taught him more than any book could.
Stepping fully into the training room now, Ted's body briefly glowed with a dim blue light before it faded. The rune circle was active. He glanced at the small crystal sitting on a table in the center of a separate, smaller rune circle.
That was the Trace-blocker.
'I've been waiting for this for a long time,' Ted thought, raising his wand and aiming at a target standing near the far wall.
"Incendio!"
<================>
This chapter was originally separated into two parts that were merged and edited(I'm sorry if your comments were deleted as a result.)