The three days following Professor McGonagall's visit were a study in quiet, coiled anticipation. For the first time since her arrival in this new reality, Ariana felt a genuine thrum of excitement, a feeling that was purely her own and not just an echo of her former life's memories. The orphanage, once a quiet haven for acclimation, now felt like a waiting room. The faded chintz armchair, the scent of lemon polish, the gentle rhythm of life—it had all become the 'before.' What was coming was the 'after.'
She spent the time preparing, not with frantic energy, but with the calm, methodical precision of the architect she once was. She read through the Hogwarts letter and the equipment list a dozen times, not for information, but to solidify the reality of it in her mind. She committed the names of the books to memory, cross-referencing them with the knowledge from her past life.
A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot—a woman Albus Dumbledore knew intimately.
Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander—a man who had been at the center of the conflict involving Grindelwald and, tangentially, the original Ariana.
The names were not just names; they were connections, threads in a web she was only just beginning to perceive from the inside.
On the third morning, a Saturday, she was ready. She had dressed with care in her best, plainest dress of dark blue cotton. She had brushed her honey-blonde hair until it shone like spun silk, letting it hang loose down her back. It was a conscious choice. Her appearance was a tool, a statement. She looked ethereal, innocent, yet her posture and the unnerving calm in her periwinkle eyes projected an aura of quiet authority.
She sat on the steps of the orphanage's main entrance, a book open but unread in her lap, and waited. She felt his approach before she heard it. The ambient magic of the world, usually a gentle hum, seemed to ripple, parting around a large, approaching presence. It was a magic that felt warm, wild, and deeply, fundamentally good. Then came the sound, a knock on the great oak door so thunderous it seemed to shake the very foundations of the building. The little glass panes on either side of the door rattled in their frames, and from inside, a few of the younger girls shrieked in surprise.
The door was wrenched open by a flustered Mrs. Gable, who gasped and took a full step back. Filling the entire doorway, and then some, was a man who could only be described as a giant. He was at least twice as tall as a normal man and three times as wide, with a great, tangled mane of black hair and a beard that completely hid his face, save for two shining, black beetle-like eyes that crinkled with kindness. He was dressed in a moleskin overcoat with more pockets than seemed possible.
"Rubeus Hagrid," he boomed, his voice a deep, rumbling bass that vibrated in Ariana's bones. "Here fer Miss Dumbledore. An' for Harry. Dumbledore's orders."
As the giant shifted slightly to one side, Ariana saw him. Hiding behind one of the man's colossal legs was a small, skinny boy with unruly black hair that stuck up at all angles, a pair of round, broken glasses held together with tape, and brilliant green eyes that were wide with a mixture of terror and awe. He was swimming in clothes that were several sizes too large, cast-offs from a much larger boy.
This was him. Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived.
In her past life, he had been a hero, a figure of literary legend. Seeing him now, in the flesh, Ariana's first thought was not of prophecy or destiny. It was a sharp, painful pang of empathy. He wasn't a hero. He was a child. A neglected, underfed, and clearly overwhelmed child who had just been ripped from his own reality. Her carefully constructed composure felt a flicker of something fierce and protective.
Hagrid's beetle-black eyes scanned the porch and landed on her. His jaw went slack beneath the forest of his beard. The booming confidence seemed to evaporate, replaced by a stunned, profound silence. He stared at her face, at her hair, at her eyes, and his own eyes began to glisten.
"Merlin's beard," he whispered, the sound a raw, emotional rumble. "It… it's just like her portrait. Albus said… but I never imagined…" He took a half-step forward, his gaze full of a sorrow so old and deep it felt ancient. "Yeh look just like her. Just like his sister." He seemed to catch himself, shaking his massive head as if to clear it. "Beggin' yer pardon, miss. Name's Hagrid, Keeper of Keys an' Grounds at Hogwarts. It's an honor. A real honor."
Ariana rose gracefully from the step, closing her book. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Hagrid," she said, her voice calm and steady, a gentle anchor in the sea of his emotion.
She then turned her gaze to the small boy behind him, offering him a soft, reassuring smile. "And you must be Harry." Harry just stared, first at the giant, then at the girl who looked like she'd stepped out of a fairytale. He gave a small, jerky nod, too overwhelmed to speak.
The journey to London was a whirlwind of mundane absurdity clashing with burgeoning magic.
Hagrid insisted on taking the Tube, a feat that involved him taking up nearly three seats and drawing stares from every passenger. He counted the Muggle money with immense concentration, his huge fingers struggling with the small coins.
Through it all, Ariana sat with serene poise, a beacon of tranquility next to Hagrid's booming, affable chaos. She engaged Harry in quiet conversation, asking simple questions about his school, his favorite subject—anything to draw him out of his shell and ground him. She learned he liked drawing and was surprisingly good at it, a
small detail the books had never mentioned.
They arrived at the Leaky Cauldron, a shabby-looking pub squeezed between a bookshop and a record store. To any other Muggle, it would have been invisible. But Ariana could feel it, a thrum of magic so concentrated it made the air feel thick and heavy, like just before a thunderstorm.
Inside, the pub was dark and dingy, but full of a strange, captivating energy. The patrons, a bizarre collection of wizened old crones and cloaked wizards, fell silent as they entered.
All eyes went to Hagrid, then to the famous scar peeking out from under Harry's messy fringe, and finally, to Ariana. Her ethereal beauty and uncanny resemblance to a figure of historical tragedy, combined with the Dumbledore name that would surely spread like wildfire, made them a spectacle.
"The usual, Hagrid?" a toothless wizard behind the bar asked.
"Can't, Tom, I'm on Hogwarts business," Hagrid said proudly, puffing out his chest. He led them through the pub to a small, walled courtyard at the back. He stood before a brick wall, counted bricks—three up, two across—and tapped the wall three times with his pink umbrella.
The effect was instantaneous and breathtaking. A small hole appeared, widening and growing, bricks folding and sliding away from each other to form a grand, sweeping archway. Beyond it lay a cobbled street, twisting and turning out of sight, lined with the most fantastical shops she had ever seen. Cauldrons were stacked in gleaming piles, owl cages twittered from storefronts, and robes of every colour imaginable hung on display.
Diagon Alley.
Harry gasped, his green eyes wider than Ariana had ever seen them. It was a pure, unadulterated
moment of wonder, and she felt a genuine smile grace her lips as she watched him. For her, the sight was one of profound, validating reality. It was real. All of it. The hum of magic in her veins seemed to sing in harmony with the ambient magic of the Alley.
"First stop," Hagrid announced, his voice filled with importance, "Gringotts. The wizard bank. No safer place, 'cept perhaps Hogwarts."
Gringotts was an imposing snow-white building that towered over the other shops. Inside, stern faced goblins with long fingers and clever, dark eyes were perched on high stools, weighing jewels and scribbling in ledgers. The sheer weight of ancient wealth and suspicion in the room was palpable.
Harry was visibly intimidated. Ariana, however, looked at the goblins with the analytical eye of an architect and a strategist. These were not monsters; they were the masters of a powerful institution, sharp, intelligent, and not to be underestimated. She offered a brief, respectful nod to the goblin they approached, a gesture that was of respect to the creature.
Hagrid presented Harry's key and a sealed letter from Dumbledore regarding Vault 713.
For Ariana, he produced another letter. "From Professor McGonagall," he explained to the goblin, "fer Miss Dumbledore's school expenses. From the Hogwarts fund fer such cases."
The goblin, whose nameplate read 'Griphook,' took the letter. His dark eyes flickered to Ariana, and his eyebrows raised infinitesimally as he read her name on the parchment. "Dumbledore," he stated, the name sounding like stones grinding together. "An unusual coincidence of name and… appearance." His gaze was sharp, assessing. He had clearly heard the old stories.
"Life is full of unusual coincidences," Ariana replied smoothly, her voice betraying no emotion.
Griphook gave a sharp, toothy grin that was not entirely pleasant. "Indeed."
The cart ride to the vaults was a dizzying, exhilarating plunge into the earth's depths. Wind roared past them as the cart twisted and careened along the tracks. Harry whooped with a mixture of fear and delight. Hagrid looked increasingly green. Ariana simply held on, her long hair whipping around her, a small, genuine smile on her face. The sensation of speed, of plunging into the unknown, was thrilling.
They stopped first at Harry's vault. The sight of the small mountain of gold, silver, and bronze coins was staggering. It was the legacy of the Potter family, a fortune the boy had never known he possessed. Ariana watched him, seeing the shock and confusion on his face. It was another layer of his new identity, another weight to place on his small shoulders.
Ariana's own 'vault' was far more modest. It was a small, secure locker that Griphook opened with a master key. Inside sat several neat stacks of Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts. It was a generous amount—more than enough for her supplies, with a significant sum left over. Dumbledore, it seemed, was ensuring his namesake would want for nothing. She methodically scooped the coins into a leather pouch Hagrid provided, her movements efficient and practical.
Their final stop was the high-security Vault 713. It was empty, save for a grubby little package wrapped in brown paper, which Hagrid tucked deep into his coat. Ariana knew what it was. The Philosopher's Stone. The first great test for the boy standing beside her.
Seeing it, feeling the faint, ancient magic pulsing from the parcel, made the future feel terrifyingly, exhilaratingly real.
Back in the bright sunlight of the Alley, their first proper stop was Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. As they entered the shop, a squat, smiling witch bustled forward.
"Hogwarts, dears?" she chirped. "Got the lot right here."
Another boy was already being fitted, standing on a stool in the back. He had a pale, pointed face and sleek, white-blond hair. His voice was a bored, arrogant drawl. Draco Malfoy. "…and my father says it's a crime if they let the other sort in," he was saying. "You know, the ones who haven't been brought up to know our ways. They're just not the same."
He caught sight of Harry and Hagrid, his nose wrinkling in disdain at Hagrid's size and scruffy appearance. Then his gaze fell upon Ariana. He stopped talking. His pale grey eyes widened slightly, taking in her striking beauty and poised demeanor.
"Hello," Malfoy said, his arrogant tone shifting to something smoother, more inquisitive. "Hogwarts, too?"
"Yes," Harry mumbled, looking uncomfortable.
Ariana simply inclined her head in a silent acknowledgement, her periwinkle eyes coolly assessing him. She saw not a menacing villain, but a spoiled, insecure child puffing himself up with his father's rhetoric.
"My father's next door buying my books and my mother's up the street looking at wands," Malfoy boasted. "Then I'm going to drag them off to look at racing brooms. I don't see why first years can't have their own. I think I'll bully Father into getting me one and I'll smuggle it in somehow."
He looked from Harry's ill-fitting clothes to Ariana's simple but neat dress. "What are your surnames?"
Harry was about to answer when Ariana spoke, her voice quiet yet carrying an undeniable weight in the small shop. "I am Ariana Dumbledore."
Malfoy's jaw literally dropped. The color drained from his pale face. "Dumbledore?" he
stammered, his eyes wide with shock and a hint of fear. The name was synonymous with power, with everything his father railed against. He stared at her, then at Harry, clearly trying to process this information. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, for once rendered speechless.
Madam Malkin finished with him shortly after, and he scurried out of the shop with a final, confused glance back at them.
After being fitted for their standard black robes, Ariana turned to the witch. "Madam Malkin," she said, her tone polite but firm, "I'll need more than just school robes. I require a full wardrobe."
Hagrid looked surprised. "A full wardrobe? But the list just says—"
"I have no other clothes that fit me properly, Mr. Hagrid," Ariana stated simply. It was the truth. "It would be impractical to arrive at school with only a single set of non-uniform clothes."
Madam Malkin beamed, her eyes lighting up at the prospect of a larger sale. Over the next hour, Ariana, with the detached efficiency of a seasoned shopper, selected a capsule wardrobe. She chose practical, high-quality items in muted tones—dark trousers, simple blouses of cream and grey silk, woollen jumpers, a sturdy travelling cloak, and comfortable, well-made boots. It was a wardrobe that spoke of quiet elegance and self-sufficiency, not childish whimsy. She was building a new life, and she intended to be properly equipped for it.
Their final, most anticipated stop was the narrow, shabby shop with peeling gold letters that read: Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.
The air inside was thick with a magic so ancient it felt like breathing in dust and secrets. Thousands of narrow boxes were stacked to the ceiling. A soft, tinkling bell announced their arrival, and from the shadowy depths of the shop, a man emerged.
Garrick Ollivander's wide, silvery eyes were unsettling, giving the impression that he saw not just them, but the very fabric of their beings. He looked at Harry first, a flicker of recognition in his gaze. "Harry Potter," he breathed. "I knew I'd be seeing you one day." Then his gaze shifted to Ariana, and he froze. His silvery eyes widened, and he seemed to pale.
"My word," he whispered, his voice full of disbelief. "Ariana… Dumbledore. It cannot be. The name… and the face. A ghost from a sad old story."
"The story is over," Ariana said, her voice soft but firm. "I am here for a wand."
Ollivander stared at her for a long moment, his mind clearly reeling. Finally, he shook his head as if waking from a dream and turned his professional attention to Harry. "You first, Mr. Potter."
What followed was the chaotic dance Ariana remembered from the books. Wands were tried and rejected, causing drawers to fly open and vases of flowers to shatter. Finally, Ollivander returned with a specific box. "Holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple."
The moment Harry took the wand, a shower of red and gold sparks flew from its tip, and a warm feeling spread through the shop. A perfect match. Ollivander then delivered the chilling reveal: the phoenix whose feather resided in Harry's wand had given one other feather. Just one. It was in the wand of Lord Voldemort.
After the profound gravity of that revelation, it was Ariana's turn.
Ollivander approached her with a renewed, intense curiosity. "Now, Miss Dumbledore. Your turn. I confess, I am more intrigued than I have been in a great many years."
He began with standard wands. A ten-inch willow with a unicorn hair core felt like a dead stick in her hand. A twelve-and-a-quarter-inch maple with dragon heartstring felt actively hostile, vibrating with a resentful energy. He brought out wand after wand. Some did nothing. Others sent sparks flying that fizzled out into sad puffs of smoke. One, a powerful ebony and dragon heartstring, flew out of her hand and embedded itself in the ceiling.
Hagrid and Harry watched, mesmerized, as the pile of rejected wands grew on the counter. Ollivander, far from being discouraged, grew more and more excited, his silvery eyes gleaming.
"Fascinating!" he chirped, pulling out a measuring tape that began zipping around Ariana of its own accord. "Your magic… it is not a thing you simply have, Miss Dumbledore. It is what you are. It is woven into you, deep and strong and… placid. It refuses to be channeled by a vessel that is not precisely attuned to its nature. It demands a perfect conduit, or none at all."
He bustled back into the depths of his shop, muttering to himself. "No, no, not that… too brittle… too fickle…" He returned empty-handed, looking at her with an expression of profound contemplation.
"There is no wand for you in this shop, Miss Dumbledore," he announced, a note of triumph in his voice. "No pre-made wand would ever be worthy of you. We must craft one."
Hagrid looked stunned. "Craft one? I've never heard o' such a thing."
"It is rare, but for the most singular of witches and wizards, it is the only way," Ollivander said, his eyes fixed on Ariana. "The wood must be chosen first. It needs a wood of immense power, of history, of destiny. A wood that commands rather than serves." He paused, a dramatic flair in his gesture. "It must be Elder."
The name hung in the air. Hagrid and Harry looked blank, but Ariana's heart gave a jolt. Elder. The wood of the Deathstick, the Wand of Destiny. She would not possess the Elder Wand, but one made of its same substance. The symbolism was staggering.
"And the core," Ollivander continued, pacing now. "It cannot be unicorn, for your magic is not purely innocent. It cannot be dragon, for it is not born of fire and rage. Nor phoenix, for it is not a cycle of death and rebirth. No… your magic is like the sky before a great storm. Calm, immense, holding untold power in reserve." His eyes lit up. "It must be the tail feather of a Thunderbird."
"A Thunderbird?" Harry whispered.
"A great, magical American bird," Ollivander explained, his voice full of reverence. "It creates storms as it flies. Its feathers are notoriously difficult to work with, immensely powerful, and said to be sensitive to danger. A wand with a Thunderbird core is potent, but it chooses its master with extreme prejudice. It is a wand for a weaver of elements, a master of their own will."
He looked at Ariana, a broad, triumphant smile on his face. "Elder wood, with a Thunderbird tail feather core. A wand of immense power, for a witch of immense potential. It will be my masterpiece."
He informed her that crafting such a wand would take time. It was a delicate, dangerous process. He would send it via owl to Hogwarts when it was complete and had accepted her as its mistress.
They left the shop, stepping back into the bustling Alley. Harry was looking at her with a new level of awe. Hagrid was simply shaking his massive head in bewilderment. Ariana herself was silent, her mind racing. An Elder wand with the heart of a storm. It was more than a tool. It was a declaration.
The world of magic had just met her, and it had already decided she was a force to be reckoned with. Her quiet, carefully planned journey was already becoming something far grander, and far more conspicuous, than she had ever intended.