The wand shop swallowed them whole.
Boxes climbed the walls in precarious towers, their faded labels catching the weak light like old secrets.
Narrow aisles cut between them, dusty and deep, and the air itself hummed—a low, patient thrum that settled in the back of Elias’s teeth.
It smelled of aged paper and something sharper, like ozone before a storm.
Hermione stepped in behind him, her breath catching.
Before she could speak, a figure peeled itself from the shadows.
“Welcome to Ollivander’s,” the man said, and his bow was small but exact, the kind of gesture that had been practiced for decades.
“Esteemed guests. Now then—who among you would like to be chosen first?”
Elias nudged Hermione with his elbow.
She shot him a glare that could have stripped paint.
He smiled back, harmless.
“I’ll go,” she said.
“Excellent.” Ollivander’s measuring tape sprang from his pocket like a living thing, whipping around her head, her arms, the span of her fingers.
It paused at her nostrils.
Hermione’s cheeks went pink, but she bit down on the question.
Later, she told herself.
There would be a book on wandlore, and she would find it, and then she would understand why her nostrils mattered.
Ollivander plucked boxes from the shelves with the speed of long habit, stacking them on the counter until the pile leaned.
One by one, he pressed wands into Hermione’s hand.
She waved each with careful precision.
Nothing.
Not a flicker.
“Oh, try this one, child.” His voice climbed.
“I haven’t had such a discriminating customer in—well, in a very long time.”
Her fingers brushed the next wand.
He snatched it back before she could close her grip.
“No, no, definitely not. Perhaps… this?”
He offered another, eyes bright.
“The wand chooses the wizard, I always say. You must be quite special indeed.”
Hermione’s jaw tightened with something between frustration and delight.
She gripped the new wand harder, staring at its tip as if she could will it to respond.
“No, not this one either.”
“Ah. Right. I have a feeling—”
The next wand settled into her palm, and the tip bloomed with soft white light.
It wasn’t a flash.
It was a quiet, steady glow, like a candle catching.
“Yes!” Ollivander actually bounced on the balls of his feet.
“A perfect fit! Vinewood, dragon heartstring, nine and three-quarter inches. Quite resilient. Vinewood favors those with lofty ambitions and extraordinary wisdom, you know. Dragon heartstring learns spells quickly—very quickly. This wand is one of my proudest creations from my youth. I thought no one would ever wield it. That it would stay locked away forever. But I never expected…” He shook his head, gaze going distant, as if he was already picturing her name in Ministry records.
Elias watched, arms crossed.
A well-rehearsed merchant’s trick, he thought.
Same platitudes for every child who walked through the door, making each one feel chosen.
But it worked.
Hermione was already nodding along, and before he knew it, she was being upsold on a set of wand-polishing tools and a gift box.
She settled onto a bench by the window, polishing her new wand with the reverence of a scribe handling a sacred text.
“Now then, young man.” Ollivander turned, and the measuring tape came for Elias next.
The first wand did nothing.
The second, the third, the fifth.
Ollivander’s polite disinterest cracked into surprise, then into something hungrier.
“Unexpected!” he called from a ladder, running a finger along the spines of boxes.
“Utterly unexpected! Two such singular young wizards in the same day—amazing!”
This time, he didn’t grab at random.
He searched, slower, more deliberate.
Finally, he pulled down a box that looked older than the rest, its corners worn soft.
He set it on the counter with both hands, reverent.
“This wand,” he said, lifting the lid, “was made by my grandfather.”
Elias had to fight the grin tugging at his mouth.
The sales pitch was escalating.
He dropped his gaze to his shoes, feigning sudden interest in the scuff marks.
Ollivander didn’t notice.
He drew the wand out and wiped it with a cloth, his voice dropping low.
“It was an experiment. Based on a legend. A rather unique creation—Thestral tail hair and yew wood.”
Elias’s attention sharpened despite himself.
“Firstly,” Ollivander continued, “only those who have witnessed death can see Thestrals. That means most wandmakers never even have the opportunity to acquire such a core. Secondly, it’s said that wands with Thestral tail hair respond only to witches and wizards who can control death. But there’s never been a wizard in official history who wielded one. Most consider it an unusable material.”
He turned the wand over in his hands.
“But after my grandfather witnessed the Thestrals himself, he didn’t abandon the idea. He combined it with yew—a wood that also represents death—and this wand was born. He believed it represented the very control of death. Reincarnation. Immortality. Eternal life. A wizard who could gain its approval would be destined for unparalleled power.”
Elias’s hands trembled.
Just slightly.
The word reincarnation landed in his chest like a stone dropped into still water.
He reached out.
The moment his fingers closed around the yew, warmth surged up his arm.
It wasn’t magic like the others—it was recognition.
A shiver ran down his spine, involuntary and intimate, the kind of sensation that comes when you hear a song you thought you’d forgotten.
“It’s done!” Ollivander shouted, and this time his glee was almost unhinged.
“Since this wand was created, you are the first to elicit a response! I had all but written it off! Amazing! Amazing! Young man, your future is destined to be extraordinary!”
Elias left the shop carrying his own set of wand-care tools and a gift box.
Only then did he admit to himself that he might have walked straight into the trap.
But the talk of a reincarnated soul was difficult to dismiss entirely.
It was a truth he’d shared with no one.
Hermione, having witnessed Ollivander’s performance a second time, looked thoroughly unimpressed.
She leaned close as they walked.
“He’s a charlatan,” she whispered.
“Don’t let him sway you with that patter. I’ve read about sales tactics.”
Elias said nothing.
The Leaky Cauldron smelled of woodsmoke and roasted chicken, the kind of smell that made your stomach remember it was empty.
They ended up sharing a table with a freckled, red-haired boy who introduced himself as Ron Weasley between mouthfuls.
He ate like he hadn’t seen food in days and talked about Quidditch the entire time—players, fouls, the Chudley Cannons’ abysmal season.
Elias found him oddly likeable.
They quickly reached a consensus: the food in the wizarding world was far superior to anything in the Muggle world, though they continued to wonder if magic was involved in the cooking.
As the warmth of the meal settled into him, Elias felt a gentle pull—a new knowledge slotting into place, quiet and certain.
[Transfiguration LV.3 — 847 EXP]
He set down his fork and opened his Data Panel.
“`
ORIGINAL SIN STATUS
Pride [87/120]
Wrath [63/120]
Sloth [108/120]
Greed [90/120]
Envy [30/120]
Gluttony [52/120]
Lust [95/120]
“`
Reincarnation.
If that was the key to unlocking this strange power, what else was hidden in his past?
The numbers stared back at him, silent and patient, like a lock waiting for the right key.