“Hah!
Bedhead again, Ethan.” Professor Sprout chuckled as she flicked her wand toward him.
His messy hair immediately flattened itself into place.
“You didn’t exactly give me time to fix it myself,” Ethan replied innocently with a shrug.
“Hurry downstairs.
We’ve got a lot to buy today.” Professor Sprout started down the stairs, the old wooden steps groaning ominously beneath her weight.
Ethan followed at a cautious distance.
Not because he disliked her.
He was simply worried the staircase might collapse beneath both of them.
Breakfast at the Leaky Cauldron turned out to be painfully ordinary.
Bread.
Jam.
Milk.
Sausages.
The standard British survival package.
It wasn’t particularly good, but Ethan still cleaned his plate completely.
Children raised in orphanages didn’t waste food.
After eating, the two exited through the pub’s rear entrance.
A brick wall blocked the alley behind it.
Ethan’s eyes brightened slightly.
He already knew what stood beyond.
The real magical world.
Professor Sprout raised her wand.
“Third brick above the rubbish bin,” she explained.
“Then count two across.” She tapped the correct brick three times.
Instantly, the wall began to move.
Bricks twisted and folded apart like living machinery, opening into a bustling hidden street overflowing with color, noise, and magic.
Diagon Alley.
For a moment, Ethan simply stood there.
This was the true threshold.
The point where fantasy stopped being distant and became reality.
Professor Sprout stepped forward first while continuing her explanation.
“There are three primary ways to access Diagon Alley.” “First is through the Leaky Cauldron entrance.” “Second is Apparition—the spell we used yesterday.” She paused briefly.
“And third is Floo Powder.” As they walked deeper into the alley, she gestured toward several connected fireplaces built into nearby shops.
“Apparition requires considerable magical skill.
Most ordinary witches and wizards struggle with it.” A trace of pride entered her voice.
“Generally, only highly trained adults and professors can use it comfortably.” Ethan nodded thoughtfully.
That aligned surprisingly well with advanced shinobi movement techniques.
Powerful mobility abilities almost always came with absurd learning curves.
“Floo Powder is much easier,” Sprout continued.
“And inexpensive.
Two Sickles per use.” “It’s the preferred method of travel for many wizarding families.” She pointed toward one of the fireplaces.
“You stand inside, throw down the powder, and clearly state your destination.” Then she abruptly stopped walking and looked directly at him.
Her expression turned unusually serious.
“Clearly,” she repeated.
Ethan blinked.
“…Because if you pronounce it wrong, something goes terribly wrong?” “Very terribly wrong.” Professor Sprout sighed.
“Some people have ended up embedded halfway inside walls.” Ethan stared at her.
“…Dead?” “Very.” The professor rubbed her forehead.
“I would prefer not to see your name attached to any transportation accident reports, Ethan.” “Understood.” After that, the shopping process began properly.
Professor Sprout moved through Diagon Alley with the terrifying efficiency of someone who had escorted first-years for decades.
Within an hour, Ethan already possessed: Three sets of Hogwarts robes.
A pointed hat.
Protective gloves.
A winter cloak.
A cauldron for Potions.
Various school supplies.
And finally— a pet.
He chose an owl almost immediately.
Because honestly, who voluntarily picked a toad or a rat?
Every expense was covered directly by Hogwarts.
Which only reinforced Ethan’s realization that magical Britain apparently handled orphan support better than normal Britain.
Eventually, only one thing remained.
A wand.
Professor Sprout guided him toward an old, narrow shop wedged tightly between larger buildings.
The sign above the entrance read: Ollivanders Makers of Fine Wands Since 382 B.C.
The moment they stepped inside, a soft voice drifted out from somewhere deeper in the store.
“Professor Sprout.” An elderly man with wild white hair emerged from behind towering stacks of wand boxes.
He looked disturbingly similar to Einstein after surviving a lightning strike.
“Chestnut wood,” Ollivander said immediately while approaching.
“Unicorn hair core.
Thirteen and two-thirds inches.” His pale eyes gleamed faintly.
“You’ve been traveling recently.” Professor Sprout laughed softly.
“Your memory remains terrifying as always, Mr.
Ollivander.” “Of course it does.” The old wandmaker straightened proudly.
“I remember every wand I’ve ever sold.” Then his gaze shifted toward Ethan.
“And this young wizard?” “First-year Hogwarts student,” Sprout explained.
Ollivander smiled immediately.
“Wonderful.” He crouched slightly until he met Ethan’s eyes directly.
“Hogwarts is the finest magical school in the world, my boy.
Your future begins there.” Then he flicked his wand lazily.
Several enchanted measuring tapes instantly sprang to life and began circling Ethan.
“Stand still.” Measurements rapidly recorded themselves.
Arm length.
Shoulder width.
Finger size.
Distance between eyes.
Ethan endured the process with increasing confusion.
What exactly did any of this have to do with wand compatibility?
As though reading his thoughts, Ollivander spoke while searching nearby shelves.
“Every wand is unique.” “The wood matters.” “The magical core matters.” “But most importantly…” He turned slightly.
“A wand changes alongside its owner.” His voice became almost reverent.
“Even identical materials can become entirely different wands depending on who wields them.” Interesting.
That sounded disturbingly similar to soul resonance.
Or perhaps— soul synchronization.
The more Ethan listened, the more familiar the underlying logic became.
Wands weren’t merely tools.
They were spiritual conductors.
Catalysts shaped by compatibility between will, magic, and identity.
Eventually, Ollivander stopped beside a dusty shelf.
“Dominant hand?” “Right.” “Excellent.” The wandmaker retrieved an old box coated in dust before handing it over carefully.
Ethan opened it.
Inside rested a pale wand polished smooth with age.
“Aspen wood.
Dragon heartstring.
Ten inches.” Ollivander stepped back.
“Give it a gentle wave.” Ethan obeyed.
The instant the wand moved— BOOM.
A violent burst of magic detonated outward.
Several shelves behind Ollivander collapsed instantly, crashing across the floor in a cascading avalanche of wand boxes.
Professor Sprout retreated toward the doorway on reflex.
Ollivander nearly jumped out of his skin.
“Powerful magic!” he exclaimed.
Then he frowned deeply.
“But absolutely not your wand.” “Sorry!” Ethan quickly shoved it back into the box.
Even he hadn’t expected a reaction that violent.
Then realization hit him.
The Soul Palace amplified more than combat instincts or learning speed.
His spiritual strength itself had already become abnormal.
Not just strong.
Abnormal.
Quite literally too much for an incompatible wand to handle cleanly.
“Quite alright,” Ollivander muttered while repairing fallen shelves with absent wand flicks.
“Though admittedly… reactions on that scale are uncommon.” The old wandmaker narrowed his eyes thoughtfully.
“Perhaps your Eastern heritage is affecting compatibility.” He disappeared deeper into the towering shelves.
“Mmm… yes… perhaps something closer to your roots…” Ethan watched him go thoughtfully.
Most wandmakers experimented with a wide range of magical materials.
But Ollivander famously preferred only three primary cores for standard wands: Phoenix feather.
Dragon heartstring.
Unicorn hair.
Not because alternatives didn’t exist— but because he considered those materials superior.
Still, for unusual customers, he occasionally used rarer cores gathered from distant parts of the world.
Several minutes later, Ollivander finally returned holding another dust-covered box.
This one looked far older than the others.
And the moment Ethan saw it— his Observation Haki stirred faintly.