Julian lowered his head as he stepped back into Ollivander's shop, bracing for scolding. Surely Dumbledore or Ollivander must be furious about what had just happened.
But no rebuke came.
Instead, Dumbledore approached, laid a warm hand on the boy's hair, and said gently,
"Child, don't torment yourself over the accident. The Ministry will smooth things over. That is their business."
"But… I broke the law, didn't I?" Julian asked quietly.
"Ah," Dumbledore raised an eyebrow, his tone light, "you are not quite eleven yet, are you? Believe me, the Ministry will not hound a boy of ten. At worst, they'll mutter a complaint or two, and that is all." He punctuated his words with a knowing wink.
Julian hesitated, clutching his wand. "Professor… just now, when I cast that spell… why did I feel so happy? It was as though every sorrow I had simply disappeared. Was that… normal?"
"Very normal." Dumbledore smiled. "The magic you cast is called the Patronus Charm. It is among the most difficult—and most beautiful—defenses in magic. A dark wizard cannot conjure it. Instead, the Patronus springs only from hearts that are, at their core, kind."
Julian muttered under his breath, thinking of his old life, the blood and war of the Uchiha clan. Kind, huh? Maybe… maybe it's time to let it go.
"What was that, my boy?"
Julian shook his head quickly. "Nothing, Professor. I was just wondering… do all spells stir emotions like that?"
Dumbledore's expression grew serious. "Not quite. Black magic, for instance, often corrupts its user, feeding cruelty or hatred. The Patronus, however, is different. It is the opposite—born only from positive memory and hope."
He leaned closer. "In truth, most adults cannot properly conjure one. At best they produce only a wisp of light. To create a Patronus with a physical body—a stag, a wolf, a unicorn—that is rare beyond rare."
Julian blinked. "But… why me? This was my first true attempt with a wand. How could I use it?"
Dumbledore turned his gaze. "Perhaps Ollivander may answer that."
The wandmaker had been quiet all this time, but now his pale eyes gleamed. He stepped forward, voice rising with emotion.
"Mr. Wooless… I have crafted wands for decades. Each wand is like my child—I can recall the name and face of every witch and wizard I've served. Yet for all those years, though my methods have been my family's, I was never satisfied. I craved innovation. I sought a wand beyond all tradition."
Julian tilted his head, but the gleam in Ollivander's eyes reminded him eerily of Sasori from the Akatsuki—obsession bordering on madness.
"I experimented," Ollivander continued feverishly. "Altered techniques and cores none dared fuse. Until, one day, I made it… something wholly new. This wand. Not by tradition, not by history. A creation no one else could craft."
His hands shook as he spoke. "But it chose no one. Year after year, wizard after wizard, it lay dormant. To all others it was merely wood, without spark, without life. For over ten years it rejected everyone."
Ollivander's gaze locked onto Julian, burning with sudden intensity. "Until today. Until you."
The old man's voice broke, tears streaming down his face. "By choosing you, the wand has come alive at last. You have proven that my dream was not madness. Thank you, child. Thank you."
Julian was too stunned to speak. Dumbledore said nothing either—only placed a steady hand on the old wandmaker's shoulder.
At last, still trembling, Ollivander pressed the wand box into Julian's arms. "Take it. No Galleons, no price. It is yours. Use it well. I cannot say what powers it hides—for even I do not know—but one thing is certain: the wand has chosen you. Remember that always."
Without another word, Ollivander turned and disappeared into the maze of shelves.
Julian stood motionless, then bowed deeply toward the shadows where the old man had vanished. Don't worry, Ollivander. I'll never let this wand gather dust. I'll make sure it shines.
Straightening, he followed Dumbledore out into the fading light. Neither spoke at first. Finally, Julian murmured, "Mr. Ollivander is… a respectable man."
Dumbledore paused at that. As the sunset painted Julian's silhouette in molten gold, the elder wizard smiled softly. "Yes," he whispered to himself. "Different. They are different."
The two returned to Madam Malkin's, where Julian collected his robes, cloaks, and gloves. After thanking the seamstress, he paid thirty Galleons from his pouch.
Outside, Dumbledore turned to him. "It grows late. I must return to the school. Finish your shopping alone—books, potions, pets. Before long, September will arrive. Until then, Leaky Cauldron will be your home. Farewell, Julian. I look forward to seeing you at Hogwarts."
"Goodbye, Professor," Julian said; and with a soft pop, Dumbledore vanished.
Back at the Leaky Cauldron, Julian ate a quiet meal, then dragged his trunk upstairs. He collapsed onto the bed, too exhausted to even train, and drifted swiftly into sleep.
That night, he dreamed.
He was a unicorn, streaking across the skies, until the world itself seemed to dissolve into gray mist. Then came silver light—growing, spreading, burning away the endless gray. When the brilliance cleared, Julian stood upon shimmering grass that stretched forever, broken only by a vast, glimmering lake.
From the lake's waters, a unicorn raised its head and gazed at him. Its eyes were impossibly soft, tender, as though looking at someone beloved. Then a voice echoed:
"Not yet. The time for us to meet has not come. Go, child."
Suddenly, a force like a great tide pulled Julian backward. No matter how he struggled, he could not resist. The lake, the grass, the unicorn—all rushed away.
With the sound of shattering glass, Julian jolted awake, sunlight warming his face.
He sat up, breathing lightly. "So… it was all a dream, huh?"
After washing and dressing, he tucked the new wand carefully into his robes. Today, he still had supplies to buy. His path into the wizarding world had only just begun.