THE WAND’S CALL
Diagon Alley was as bustling as ever, filled with the chatter of eager young witches and wizards preparing for their first year at Hogwarts. The scent of parchment, ink, and fresh cauldron polish filled the air as families moved between shops, arms laden with school supplies. Hermione had been looking forward to this trip for weeks—her Hogwarts letter had arrived with a list of books and materials she was already itching to read through. But her excitement was somewhat dimmed by the fact that Alphard, as always, was too busy to accompany her. Instead, she had been sent along with Sirius, Regulus, and their mother, Walburga Black.
Walburga was every bit as severe as Hermione had expected. She moved through the alley like a queen surveying her kingdom, her sharp eyes scanning every face that dared glance her way. She barely spared Sirius a glance, except to scold him for one thing or another—his posture, his tone, the way he looked at the shops with something dangerously close to interest. Regulus, however, received an entirely different treatment. She kept a hand on his shoulder, murmuring in low tones about how he should observe and learn, about how they did not lower themselves to interact with ‘lesser folk.’
"You are to stay by my side," Walburga instructed as they neared Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions. "I will not have you wandering like common riffraff."
Sirius scoffed, crossing his arms. "Because Merlin forbids, we have a little fun."
Walburga shot him a glare so sharp it could cut glass. "Do not test me, Sirius. You shame me enough as it is."
Sirius opened his mouth—likely to say something reckless—but Hermione elbowed him subtly before he could get himself into trouble. He huffed but stayed quiet.
When they reached Madam Malkin’s, Walburga halted, scanning the crowd as though the very air disgusted her. "This is insufferable," she hissed, eyeing the mingling witches and wizards. "Too many commoners crowding the streets. It’s disgraceful."
Hermione seized the opportunity.
"Aunt Walburga," she said in her most measured, reasonable tone, "wouldn't it be better if Sirius and I handled our wands while you retrieve our uniforms? That way, we’ll spend less time in this... environment." She gestured subtly toward the growing crowd, wrinkling her nose just enough to imply distaste.
Walburga turned to her, eyes sharp with consideration.
"It would be more efficient," Hermione pressed gently, tilting her head as if merely stating facts. "And we’d return straight away, of course. You wouldn’t have to waste time waiting for us to be fitted."
Sirius shot Hermione a sideways glance, catching on immediately. He straightened, dusted off his sleeve, and put on an air of nonchalance. "Yes, Mother," he added smoothly, "no point in all of us wasting time here."
Walburga pursed her lips, scanning Hermione’s face, searching for any sign of deceit. But Hermione knew better than to look too eager. She simply met her gaze with polite expectation, as if she were only offering the most logical course of action.
Walburga turned to Hermione. "You, at least, seem to have been raised with some sense," she said stiffly. Finally, Walburga exhaled sharply. "Very well. But you will not dally. Get your wands and return immediately." She narrowed her eyes. "And you will not speak to anyone."
Hermione forced a polite smile. "Of course, Aunt Walburga."
Walburga looked at Regulus. "You will stay with me," she commanded, her tone leaving no room for argument. Regulus nodded without hesitation, clearly unbothered by the decision.
Satisfied, Walburga turned sharply and strode into Madam Malkin’s with Regulus in tow, already barking instructions to the seamstress inside.
The moment the door shut behind her, Sirius let out a low whistle. "Brilliant," he muttered under his breath, grinning at Hermione. "I didn’t know you had it in you."
Hermione merely smirked. "You underestimate me, Sirius."
"Apparently," he said, eyes twinkling with amusement. "Now, let’s go before she changes her mind."
With a small nod, she let Sirius lead her through the crowd, weaving between witches and wizards until they reached the narrow, old-looking shop with peeling gold letters above the door:
Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands Since 382 B.C.
Sirius pushed open the door, and a soft chime announced their arrival. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of wood and old parchment. Stacks of wand boxes were piled high, reaching the ceiling in a seemingly endless maze of magic. The air inside was thick with dust and something else—something almost electric, like a storm waiting to break.
At first, the shop seemed empty, silent except for the muffled sounds of Diagon Alley outside. Before they could call out, an elderly man with wide, pale eyes stepped out from the shadows, his expression unreadable. Garrick Ollivander’s pale, wide-set eyes fixed on them with a sharp intensity that made Hermione instinctively defensive.
"Ah," said Mr. Ollivander, tilting his head slightly as his gaze settled on them. "Sirius Black... and Hermione Ara Black, I presume?"
Hermione stiffened at the way he looked at her, like he could see something beneath the surface, something even she didn’t fully understand.
Sirius, undeterred, grinned. "That’s us. We need wands."
Mr. Ollivander studied them for a moment longer before moving swiftly behind the counter, pulling down several long boxes.
"Let’s find the right match, shall we?"
Ollivander studied him, his gaze sweeping over Sirius as though measuring more than just his height and build. "You are quite like your grandfather when he was your age," he murmured, almost to himself. "Fiery. Unruly. Unyielding." His head tilted just slightly. "Yes, I remember making his wand quite well."
Sirius’s grin faltered for just a fraction of a second before he shrugged. "Well, let’s see if his grandson can live up to it."
A flicker of amusement crossed Ollivander’s face, barely there, before he turned toward the shelves, his fingers skimming over the dust-covered boxes.
"Let us begin," he said, selecting a long, narrow box. "Try this one. Blackthorn, thirteen inches, dragon heartstring. Quite a powerful wand."
Sirius took the wand eagerly, brandishing it with an almost reckless confidence—only for the shelves behind him to rattle violently. A stack of wand boxes tumbled to the floor.
"No, no," Ollivander said swiftly, plucking the wand from his hand before anything else could fall. "Not quite right."
Sirius let out a small tsk, shaking out his hand as if to rid himself of the rejected wand’s energy.
Ollivander didn’t seem surprised. He simply moved on, pulling another box free. "Try this one—walnut, twelve and a half inches, phoenix feather. Good for Transfiguration."
Sirius gave it a flourish. This time, a faint golden spark shot from the tip, but it fizzled almost immediately.
Ollivander sighed, returning it to its box. "No… something bolder."
Hermione watched as more wands were tested and discarded, each one seeming almost right but not quite. Sirius, ever impatient, was beginning to fidget. "Any chance I get a wand that doesn’t try to hex me?" he muttered.
Ollivander ignored the comment. His hands skimmed across a particular shelf before he hesitated. His pale fingers traced the spine of a slender, unassuming box. Slowly, he pulled it free, turning to Sirius with an expression that was unreadable.
"Try this," he said, his voice softer now. "Ebony. Twelve and three-quarter inches. Core of dragon heartstring."
The moment Sirius’s fingers curled around the wand, something shifted in the air. It was subtle—like the deep intake of breath before a storm breaks. A warmth surged through his hand, and a bright, silver spark burst from the tip of the wand, flickering like lightning before settling into a steady, controlled glow.
Ollivander nodded, satisfied. "Curious," he murmured. "Ebony… A wood favoured by those who are strong-willed, independent, and often… nonconforming." His sharp gaze flickered up to meet Sirius’s. "A most fitting match, indeed."
Sirius turned the wand in his hand, his usual cocky grin creeping back onto his face. "I like it."
"I imagine you would," Ollivander mused. "Ebony wands do not suit those who bend to the expectations of others."
Hermione barely suppressed a smirk at that. How fitting.
Sirius gave his wand another flick, sending a final arc of silver light through the air before slipping it into his pocket. "Alright, Hermione, your turn."
Hermione stepped forward, feeling Ollivander’s gaze settle on her in a way that made her shiver. But as he turned to retrieve a wand for her, she couldn’t help but steal another glance at Sirius—his wand, his reaction, and the way it had responded to him as if it had been waiting for him all along. She had read, somewhere, that the wand chooses the wizard. And Sirius, it seemed, had been chosen for something great.
Just as Ollivander was about to turn to Hermione, the door to the shop burst open with a loud chime, followed by hurried footsteps. A boy—roughly their age—came running inside, his breathing slightly laboured as if he had just sprinted across Diagon Alley. His dark, unruly hair stuck up in all directions, and behind round glasses, his hazel eyes gleamed with excitement. He skidded to a halt, barely avoiding crashing into a display shelf.
"I need a wand!" he declared, grinning as if this were the most thrilling moment of his life.
Hermione and Sirius both turned to stare at him.
Sirius, ever one to appreciate dramatics, raised an eyebrow. "Well, you certainly know how to make an entrance."
The boy barely spared him a glance, too busy looking around at the thousands of wand boxes stacked on shelves, as though he might simply pluck the right one from thin air. "Do you have anything powerful?" he asked, turning to Ollivander with an air of confidence that bordered on arrogance. "Something that’ll make me unstoppable?"
Before Ollivander could respond, the door opened again, this time more gracefully, and a woman stepped inside.
Euphemia Potter.
Hermione recognized her at once—not from any personal interactions, but from the Nature's Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy in the Black family library. Bound in dragonhide and enchanted to self-update with the fate of every pureblood name recorded, those books were a legacy of her ancestors. The Potter family had been documented within its pages for centuries, though they were far from the Black family's ideal standard of noble lineage. The Potters had always leaned too far into eccentricity—into Gryffindor ideals. But they were still pure, and that meant they were still worth acknowledging.
Euphemia carried herself with an effortless grace, her dark green robes flowing with each step. Unlike Walburga, there was no harshness in her demeanour—just quiet authority and an undeniable warmth that made her instantly stand apart from the other high-born witches Hermione had known.
She adjusted her robes before exhaling lightly. "James," she said in a tone that was patient yet firm, "we do not run inside shops. And we certainly do not interrupt when others are being attended."
James—because that was undoubtedly his name—looked over his shoulder, flashing his mother a charming, if slightly mischievous, grin. "Sorry, Mum," he said, not sounding particularly sorry.
Then, as if realizing for the first time that there were others in the shop, he turned back to Hermione and Sirius, his gaze briefly flicking between them. He seemed to take in Hermione’s perfectly composed posture, the Black family crest embroidered subtly into the fabric of her robes, and Sirius’s devil-may-care stance.
James smirked. "Let me guess. You’re Blacks."
Sirius crossed his arms. "And you’re a Potter," he shot back. "Could’ve figured that out even if you hadn’t just barged in like you own the place."
James didn’t seem the least bit offended. If anything, he looked pleased. "Well, I will own the place someday," he said breezily. "Not this shop, obviously, but you know, in general."
Hermione barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Insufferable.
And yet… something about him felt familiar. Not in the way she knew Sirius, or even Regulus, but in a way that tugged at something deep in her mind—something she couldn't quite place.
Euphemia, meanwhile, gave Ollivander an apologetic nod. "I do apologize for the intrusion. We’ll wait to be attended."
Ollivander, who had remained perfectly still during the entire exchange, inclined his head slightly. "Quite alright, Lady Potter. The wand chooses the wizard, after all. And patience is often rewarded."
His gaze flickered to Hermione. "Now then, Miss Black, let us find your match."
James Potter was watching her now, curiosity dancing behind his glasses. Hermione ignored him, stepping forward. For now, James Potter was just another name, another face. But something inside her whispered that this was not the last time their paths would cross.
The moment Ollivander turned to her, Hermione’s gaze drifted toward the counter where a wand lay in its open box, the polished wood gleaming under the dim candlelight. Something about it pulled at her—a whisper of familiarity that made her fingers itch to hold it.
"That one," she said immediately, pointing at the wand before Ollivander could even reach for a box.
Ollivander blinked, the only sign of his surprise. "Curious," he murmured. "That wand is not meant for general sale. I had only set it there while reorganizing."
Hermione tilted her head. "Can I try it?"
The old wandmaker studied her with those pale, eerie eyes, as if attempting to peer through her very soul. Then, slowly, he lifted the wand from its box and handed it to her.
"Vine wood," he said, watching her carefully, "ten and three-quarter inches. Dragon heartstring core. An unusual combination—strong, yet selective in its wielder."
The moment Hermione’s fingers curled around the handle; warmth spread up her arm. The magic hummed in her fingertips, responsive, but not entirely right. When she gave it a small flick, a light breeze stirred through the shop, making a few wand boxes rattle in their places—but nothing more.
Ollivander hummed, thoughtful. "Not quite the match I expected. It recognizes you, but it does not belong to you."
Hermione frowned slightly, disappointed, but before she could dwell on it, Ollivander had already turned toward the shelves, running a long, bony finger over the boxes as he muttered to himself.
"Ah," he said at last, plucking a wand from the stacks. He removed it from its box and extended it toward her. "Try this one."
Hermione took it.
The moment her fingers met the wood, a sharp, precise energy coiled through her—less like a warm embrace and more like a quiet, knowing recognition. A pulse of pale silver light flickered at the tip, dim but steady, like a secret whispered only between the wand and its witch.
Ollivander’s expression shifted, something almost reverent in his gaze.
"Alder wood," he murmured. "Neater in length—ten inches, precisely. And a core of Thestral tail hair."
Sirius seemed to recognize the peculiarity of it, his brows furrowing. "Thestral?" he echoed, looking between Hermione and Ollivander. "I thought you didn’t use that often."
"I do not," Ollivander confirmed, his voice quiet. "It is a rare core; one I only select when the match is undeniable." He studied Hermione with an intensity that made her stomach twist. "Alder is an interesting wood—unyielding, yet not stubborn. It is suited to those who forge their own path, but more than that… to those who help others find theirs."
Hermione swallowed, gripping the wand a little tighter.
"And Thestral tail hair?" she asked.
Ollivander exhaled slowly. "A core of Thestral tail hair bonds with those who have a profound understanding of both life and death. It is powerful, but not in the way dragon heartstring or phoenix feather is. It does not seek grandeur, nor does it hunger for glory. Instead, it offers a deep connection to magic itself, to the unseen forces that shape our world." His pale eyes met hers. "A wand for someone who has known loss, and who will know it again—but who will endure."
The words sent a shiver down Hermione’s spine.
There was something too close, too real about them.
For a moment, she swore Ollivander knew—that he could somehow see the fractured pieces of herself that she did not yet understand.
But then the moment passed, and the wandmaker straightened, returning to his usual enigmatic air. "Yes," he said, nodding slightly. "I believe this is your wand, Miss Black."
Hermione took a slow breath and looked down at the wand in her hand.
It wasn’t the one she had first reached for. It wasn’t the one that had felt familiar. It was the one that chose her. And somehow, she had the uneasy feeling that it knew far more about her than she knew about herself.
As Sirius and Hermione stepped back from the counter, they didn’t leave right away. Instead, they lingered near the shelves, waiting as James eagerly stepped forward to get his own wand.
To their surprise, the process was shockingly quick. Unlike Hermione, who had needed to test a few, or Sirius, who had taken some time to find the perfect match, James’s wand seemed to choose him almost instantly. The first one Ollivander handed him responded with a confident burst of golden sparks the moment James flicked his wrist.
"Ah," Ollivander said, nodding approvingly. "A wand well-matched to a wizard who will be both daring and talented."
James grinned, clearly pleased with the result. " The wand knows greatness when it sees it."
Sirius rolled his eyes. "Oh, please."
"Well, Black, seems we both got good ones. Maybe I’ll let you duel me with it sometime. Just so you know what a real wizard can do."
Sirius snorted, tucking his wand into his pocket. "Please. I’d have you on the floor before you could even blink."
James smirked. "You wish."
"Well, you’ll both have plenty of time to duel at Hogwarts," Euphemia Potter interjected with a fond but exasperated smile. She then turned to Hermione, her sharp but kind eyes studying her for a brief moment. "And you, Miss Black—congratulations on your wand. A strong match, if I’ve ever seen one."
Hermione nodded politely, though her mind was still lingering on Ollivander’s words about her Thestral-core wand. "Thank you, Mrs. Potter. It was… an enlightening experience."
Euphemia’s lips twitched slightly. "It always is."
James, however, was far too interested in Sirius. "I bet we’re in the same house. You are going to be in Gryffindor, right?"
Before Sirius could respond, Hermione cut in smoothly, "Our family would rather see him hexed than sorted into Gryffindor."
James’s brow furrowed at that, clearly sensing the weight behind her words, but Sirius only grinned wider. "Which just means it would be hilarious if I was."
Hermione rolled her eyes, though a smirk threatened to betray her amusement.
"Come along, Sirius," she said finally, tucking her wand away. "We shouldn’t keep Aunt Walburga waiting."
"Wouldn’t dream of it," Sirius muttered, following her out the door.
James called after them, "See you at Hogwarts, then!"
Sirius turned back, walking backward as he gave a lazy salute. "Count on it, Potter!"
And with that, they disappeared into the busy streets of Diagon Alley, leaving behind the eerie quiet of Ollivander’s shop—and, unknowingly, stepping one step closer toward the future that awaited them at Hogwarts.