London, England. An owl swooped swiftly across the skies of London, scattering a group of small animals in the alley and catching the attention of a few passersby. Seeing a bird of prey like an owl in the heart of London was quite a rare sight. But the ones who stopped to look were mostly children or out-of-town tourists. In contrast, the locals remained unfazed, looking like they'd seen it all before. Just an owl. Uncommon, sure, but not unheard of—especially in July, when they seemed to be everywhere. And it just so happened to be mid-July now. "Tourists, always making a fuss over nothing." It was as if the old gents' plain short sleeves had turned into tailored suits. With an inexplicable sense of superiority, they lifted their chins and walked on with a spring in their step. No one noticed that after the owl flew over one street, it suddenly vanished. It was as though it had passed through a transparent veil. In the blink of an eye, the owl was soaring above a bustling street unlike anything nearby. Here, the people wore all sorts of bizarre clothing, some even sporting pointed hats. The buildings were equally strange, with architecture that looked like it belonged to a century long gone—maybe even earlier. Even though the view from the sky showed that this place was only a few feet away from the regular street, it felt like an entirely different world. "Welcome to Diagon Alley!" Below the owl, a drunken man shouted loudly, his voice slurred. But none of that mattered to the owl. It only wanted to finish its job quickly and get back to a nice dinner of delicious nuts. Flying on, the owl skillfully navigated around a cobblestone path and landed on the small windowsill behind Ollivander's Wand Shop. The window was clean, and inside, a boy around ten years old was bent over something, fully engrossed. The next second— Bang! Something seemed to explode inside. Sparks flew, followed by a loud crack and a puff of black smoke. "Hawthorn and redcap nerves—what a fiery combo. Maybe holly would work better." Harold Ollivander straightened up, muttering to himself as he looked at the floating red text in front of him. [Hawthorn, Redcap Nerve, Ten and a Half Inches] [Status: Incomplete] [Property: Explodes at any time] Harold rubbed his forehead. It had been eleven years since he came to this world, and over time, he had grown used to the wizards coming and going around him—and gradually accepted his new identity. A member of a... well, a wand-making family. His grandfather was none other than Garrick Ollivander, the famed wandmaker with an extraordinary memory who could recall every wand he'd ever sold. From a young age, Harold had been able to see every wand's attributes, materials, and characteristics. He couldn't quite tell whether this was some sort of "golden finger" cheat or a unique Ollivander bloodline trait. Harold leaned toward the former—especially since he could forge wand cores out of materials that made no logical sense. Even Garrick Ollivander would struggle to craft a wand with a toad's tongue for a core—but Harold could, and with a decent success rate too. Impressive, in a way. But not very useful. Harold sighed. Still, over the years, under Garrick Ollivander's influence, he'd come to enjoy wand-making more and more. What once felt like a redundant gift now seemed valuable. Shaking his head, Harold picked up another wand nearby and gave it a practiced flick. "Scourgify!" "Reparo!" The dust and smoke from the explosion vanished instantly, and the room returned to its pristine state. Only then did Harold turn toward the window. Nothing outside—just the busy street of Diagon Alley and a few brown feathers on the windowsill. "Weird. I could've sworn I heard something tapping..." He walked over and opened the window, picked up a feather, examined it, then slipped it into his pocket. Just then, a fluttering sound reached his ears. Harold instinctively looked down. A disheveled owl was glaring at him furiously, letting out a series of sharp screeches. Harold didn't understand owl-speak, but judging by its face, it was definitely swearing at him—probably quite colorfully. "Hey, it's not like the explosion was my fault," Harold muttered defensively. The owl clearly wasn't having it. With a loud thump, it threw the item clutched in its talons toward him and flew off without a backward glance. "Well... safe travels, I guess..." Harold shut the window and finally looked at what had been thrown on the floor. It was a pale yellow envelope, with emerald green ink spelling out: [To Mr. Harold Ollivander, Second Floor, Ollivander's Wand Shop, Diagon Alley, in front of the desk] He flipped the envelope over to reveal a wax seal: a crest featuring a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake encircling a large "H." Oh right—mid-July. An owl-delivered letter. What else could it be but a Hogwarts acceptance letter? Only now did Harold realize—it was already July. Soon, he'd be a new student at Hogwarts. Strangely, he wasn't as excited as he'd imagined. If this had come ten years ago, he'd probably have jumped for joy. Now... well, he was still excited, just not over the top. Besides, he'd found something he enjoyed even more than going to Hogwarts: Wand-making. He had even considered how nice it would be if he didn't get a Hogwarts letter at all. That way, he could spend more time researching wandcraft. But of course, that wasn't possible. A child with magic would never not get a Hogwarts letter. Dumbledore didn't make mistakes like that. And even if he did, there was always Minerva McGonagall. Still, this wasn't so bad. Harold stretched his arms and casually set the envelope on the desk. Knock knock knock... Footsteps echoed from the floor below—quick and urgent. Harold picked up his wand and opened the door in advance. The next moment— "I just saw an owl!" A head popped in from outside. "Was it the letter?" Garrick Ollivander was still holding a measuring tape, his face filled with anticipation. "Yep. Hogwarts letter," Harold said, pointing to the envelope on the desk. Ollivander's eyes immediately followed his finger, and upon seeing the familiar crest, he exclaimed, "Wonderful!" "To be honest, I was actually leaning toward taking my mum's advice and going to Beauxbatons," Harold said, resting his chin in one hand thoughtfully. "Alchemy would be really helpful for my research—but Hogwarts doesn't offer alchemy classes." "And my dad, mum, and grandmother all graduated from Beauxbatons. Mum even told me that her good friend just became headmistress there last year. It'd probably suit me better." Dumbledore had a big name—Chief Warlock of the International Confederation of Wizards, and widely regarded as the most powerful white wizard alive—but his eyes were only ever on Harry Potter and Voldemort. Not that he ignored regular students, but you couldn't expect him to be too invested. Beauxbatons, on the other hand, was different. His mum, Lila Ollivander, had graduated from there and remained close friends with Olympe Maxime, who had been a professor back then. They stayed in touch even after graduation. Now that Maxime was headmistress, it would've been far more convenient for Harold to go there. More importantly, in a few years, Voldemort would start planning his resurrection. Being at Hogwarts could get... complicated. "Um... Hogwarts is still great..." Ollivander's eyes darted about. "And besides, we agreed, didn't we..." He wanted Harold to attend Hogwarts—because Harold was the only one still willing to inherit the family wandmaking craft. His son—Harold's father, Garion Ollivander—had loved wandmaking as a kid, but after graduating from Beauxbatons, he fell in love with Herbology and began traveling the world with his wife. His daughter—Harold's aunt—graduated from Ilvermorny and was now a well-known magizoologist. Somehow, both of them had careers loosely related to wandmaking... but not quite. After much thought, Garrick concluded it must've been the schools' fault. Ilvermorny and Beauxbatons were just too far away. Now that Harold had finally shown a genuine passion for wand-making, he was determined to keep him close and personally pass down everything he knew. There was just one small issue... Ollivander's face suddenly fell, as if remembering something unpleasant. The thing was, Harold had talent—and he worked hard—but his talent veered in a rather... unconventional direction. Harold didn't like traditional wand cores. Unicorn tail hair, phoenix feather, and dragon heartstring weren't his style. Instead, he preferred some... well, downright heretical combinations. Like troll nose hair, redcap triple nerves, and grindylow leg bones. Ollivander wouldn't even consider using those as wand cores—let alone actually try it—but Harold was all about it. He had tried to steer Harold back to the "proper path," but obviously, that hadn't worked. And he didn't dare push too hard. He feared Harold might do what his daughter had done—run off to Ilvermorny in a fit of anger after being yelled at. A little "off-path" was better than losing the craft entirely. "All right, all right, it's not like I said I wouldn't go to Hogwarts," Harold shrugged, seeing Ollivander's pitiful, hesitant look. Come to think of it, Hogwarts had its perks. Sure, it might be a bit chaotic, but it was a treasure trove of rare materials—three-headed dogs, dementors, dragons, Voldemort, the Whomping Willow... Especially the Whomping Willow. The only one in the entire British wizarding world was at Hogwarts, and Harold had been eyeing it for ages. Oh, and then there was the Elder Wand in Dumbledore's possession. If he could just see it, it would be a huge help. Even if it didn't help, he still wanted to see that legendary wand—ideally even hold it, just once. Not likely, of course. But Harold was willing to wait. Opportunities always come eventually. (End of Chapter)