"If you master Transfiguration, your wand can become your paintbrush," Ollivander added. "A paintbrush that feels perfectly natural in your hand."
"Of course, as they say, it's the wand that chooses the wizard."
--
After leaving the wand shop, Ethan stood on the bustling street, running his fingers along his new holly wand. It gleamed faintly in the sunlight, its horizontal ridges shimmering with golden light, exuding an air of upright elegance. It was, without a doubt, the wand of a good, honest wizard—perfectly suited to him.
Ethan nodded in satisfaction and tucked the wand away.
Next, he set off to purchase the rest of his school supplies. According to the map, there was a shop called the Junk Shop not far off. Floating text beside the map described it as a place selling all sorts of secondhand items: old books, wobbly scales, chipped cauldrons, and the like. Right next to it was a secondhand robe shop—convenient for knocking out both errands at once.
The Junk Shop was located on the south side of Diagon Alley. Ethan strolled leisurely toward it, the warm sunlight spilling across his face, highlighting his fair, handsome features. His striking appearance turned heads as he passed.
What a charming boy, passersby thought.
The offices of The Daily Prophet were also on the south side. Witches and wizards in formal robes hurried in and out, most accompanied by floating notebooks that scribbled furiously, capturing every moment of their busy lives.
Ethan's gaze drifted casually over the scene, but then he froze.
There, by the entrance of The Daily Prophet, stood a slender girl.
It was impossible not to notice her. Her long, wavy blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders, adorned with enormous radish earrings. She wore vibrant, eccentric clothing and a pair of pointed shoes that looked like miniature boats. In her arms, she clutched a stack of magazines.
She stood quietly, her delicate, serene face bearing a dreamy, detached expression. People passed by, but she didn't seem to truly see them, as if she were a specter existing just beyond the veil of the world.
Luna?! When did she get here?
Spotting a character from the books, Ethan couldn't help but approach. He was about to greet her when his eyes caught the peculiar tuft of hair sticking up from her head. Before he could stop himself, he blurted out, "Why's your head all pointy?"
Luna turned her head slowly, her misty gray-blue eyes settling on him. A faint, ethereal smile curved her lips. "Well, let me ask you," she said. "Do you know about the recent break-in at Gringotts? Or rather, the break-in where nothing was stolen?"
Ethan blinked, snapping back to the moment. Though he wasn't sure why she'd brought this up, he went along with it. "Yeah, I've heard about it."
In his memory, this was Voldemort's failed attempt to steal the Philosopher's Stone from Vault 713 to restore his body. But he'd been too late—Hagrid had already retrieved the stone.
"Actually," Luna said, leaning in close, her wide gray-blue eyes rivaling Ollivander's in intensity, "it was the goblins who did it."
Ethan's brows shot up. "What?"
Luna's voice took on a conspiratorial tone. "They were holding their seventy-seventh grand assembly. They dug tunnels underground to sneak in, which is why Gringotts didn't notice them."
Her unblinking gaze fixed on Ethan, her airy voice lending an absurd weight to her words.
Ethan paused, then asked with genuine curiosity, "So, what do goblins do at these assemblies?"
"They're preparing to resurrect their master, of course," Luna said matter-of-factly. "The goblin ruler was defeated by humans long ago. Now they're scheming to bring it back and restore goblin supremacy." She pointed to the tuft on her head. "This is in their tribal language. It says, 'Your plan has failed! Get lost!'"
Ethan stifled a laugh. It sounded suspiciously like a goblin version of Voldemort's resurrection plot.
Steadying himself, he looked at Luna's earnest face and said sincerely, "I think you're absolutely right."
"It's a shame," he continued, his voice tinged with cynicism. "When real danger comes, people will only say, 'Maybe we should've done something back then,' but it'll be too late."
A spark of frustration flared in Ethan's eyes. That flippant attitude infuriated him, and he itched to do something—to make them regret not acting when they had the chance.
Luna, hearing his words, widened her eyes slightly in surprise. This wasn't just polite agreement. This strange boy genuinely believed she was onto something.
She tilted her head, studying him closely. Her gaze didn't linger on his simple clothes—it was as if they didn't matter to her at all. Instead, she looked straight into his cobalt-blue eyes.
They were calm, steady, like twin gemstones—radiant yet unyielding. But beneath their cool surface burned a fierce, fiery vitality, a relentless drive to fight.
Luna's eyes crinkled, and a bright, fawn-like smile lit up her face, making her seem vividly alive. She was certain she and Ethan would become great friends.
"I'm Luna Lovegood," she said cheerfully, extending a hand. "I'll be starting at Hogwarts next year. I'm here promoting our family's magazine, The Quibbler." She gestured to the stack of magazines in her arms. The cover featured a grotesque Gringotts goblin face-off against an equally ugly creature, both contorted in what looked like a contest for "Ugliest Expression."
Promoting The Quibbler right outside The Daily Prophet's office? Bold move.
"I'm Ethan Vincent," Ethan said, shaking her hand with a grin. "Starting at Hogwarts this year. I love painting."
Before they knew it, they were walking side by side. Luna skipped along beside him as they headed to the Junk Shop, eagerly helping him pick out supplies.
"Hey, this scale must weigh the true value of things," Luna said, pointing to a rickety old balance. "It weighed a copy of The Daily Prophet and came up with zero."
Ethan chuckled, but his attention was drawn to a shelf nearby. There, in front of him, was a box of paints.
They hadn't been well cared for. Most of the tubes were dried out, their colors caked onto the box in a messy, chaotic display. Painting with them would be a challenge, nowhere near their full potential.
But then again, they were cheap. Just nine Sickles and twenty-one Knuts.
Ethan bit his lip, fingers fidgeting with the coins in his pocket. He longed to bring color to his black-and-white sketches. Nine Sickles wasn't too bad, even if the quality was poor. But he'd need paint… and paper to go with it… another expense.
He wrestled with the decision, calculating how far his meager student stipend would stretch, wishing he could split each coin in two.
Finally, he steeled himself and reached for the paints, determined to make it work.
But then Luna spoke up. "You want paints? Would you like to illustrate for The Quibbler? We can provide you with paints. And paper, too, if you need it."
Ethan whipped around, meeting Luna's clear, sparkling eyes.