Professor McGonagall looked at the Headmaster’s expression—as though he had just stumbled upon a priceless treasure—and then back at Stelle.
She suddenly felt that she might need to ask Madam Pomfrey for an advance on her next three years’ quota of Pepperup Potion.
She took a deep breath, striving to keep her voice as precise as ever.
“Albus, are you certain?
Her origins…” “All seekers of knowledge come from the unknown, Minerva,” Dumbledore interrupted pleasantly, his eyes still studying Stelle with curiosity.
“And this one simply arrived in a manner that happened to remind us that the world is far fuller of possibilities than we imagined.
Now, my dear child,” he turned back to Stelle, his tone turning light and brisk, “I believe we need to take you to Diagon Alley to purchase your essential school supplies.
First and foremost, you must have a wand that truly belongs to you.” As Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall led Stelle through The Leaky Cauldron, the surrounding whispers buzzed like a startled swarm of bees.
Stelle’s gaze calmly swept over the men and women in robes, recording the mixture of curiosity, surprise, and faint apprehension on their faces—without it triggering much emotional wave within her.
What interested her more was the omnipresent, gentle yet resilient energy fluctuations in the air, and the ancient-looking large wine barrel behind the bar, which looked as though it might harbor good loot.
She even took advantage of Professor McGonagall’s distraction to quickly reach out and touch a self-writing quill on a nearby table.
After the playful feather tickled her palm, she yanked her hand back in surprise, her eyes lighting up as if she had discovered a new toy.
“This way, child,” Professor McGonagall said in her stern voice, pushing open a door that led to a small rear courtyard.
Surrounded by brick walls on four sides, it was entirely bare save for some weeds and a trash bin (where Stelle’s gaze lingered for a moment).
Dumbledore stood before a brick wall, drew his wand, and tapped lightly on a few specific bricks.
With a deep grinding noise, the bricks began to rotate and shift like a living jigsaw puzzle, swiftly opening into a wide archway before them.
“Welcome to Diagon Alley.” Dumbledore turned around, his eyes sparkling.
A bustling crowd, shops overflowing with goods, quills fluttering in shopfront windows, self-stirring cauldrons, and the occasional owl swooping across the sky…
A bizarre, wondrous world unfolded before Stelle in an instant.
Information flooded her senses like a rising tide.
The spicy scent of potion ingredients, the rich aroma of old parchment, the cloying sweetness of candy, and the varying intensities of energy emanating from countless magical items.
Stelle’s eyes widened slightly, like a small animal suddenly released into a strange new environment.
Her head tilted naturally, tracking an owl soaring through the sky, and a soft, low “Whoa” escaped her lips.
She could understand what everyone around her was saying, comprehending odd terms like “wand,” “broomstick,” and “Gold Galleon.” This wasn’t because she had mastered the language, but because the invisible Synesthesia Beacon deep within her consciousness was constantly at work.
Crafted with Herta Space Station technology, this sophisticated device silently translated the world’s text and even parts of its intent into information she could comprehend, mapping it directly into her perception in real time.
For her, understanding an unfamiliar language was an instinctive cross-sensory experience—much like associating the color red with warmth.
They first entered Gringotts, the snow-white goblin bank.
When exchanging currency, Professor McGonagall turned to Stelle, her tone as formal as ever.
“Child, we need to open a vault for you, or at least deposit some startup funds under your name.
Please tell me your full name.” Stelle looked up at Professor McGonagall and stated clearly, “Stelle.” A brief silence ensued.
Behind the counter, Griphook the goblin raised his sharp, shrewd eyes.
“And your family name?” McGonagall pressed, her brow knitting slightly.
In the wizarding world, a complete name was the foundation of an identity anchor.
Stelle shook her head, a trace of mischief in her posture.
“Stelle.
No last name.” Griphook made a sound somewhere between a scoff and a cough.
“Only a given name?
No family surname?
This doesn’t conform to regulations; we cannot register you.” McGonagall looked at Dumbledore with a troubled expression.
Dumbledore, however, merely looked at Stelle with gentleness, his bright blue eyes appearing to pierce through everything.
He did not pry about her family.
Instead, he spoke softly, as if deciphering an ancient riddle: “‘Stelle’?
What does it mean to you?” Stelle paused to consider how to describe an obvious truth.
She raised her hand and pointed toward the soaring ceiling mural of Gringotts depicting celestial orbits.
Her movement was smooth and natural, filled with indisputable conviction.
“It is me,” she said plainly.
“I come from up there.
And I am…
that.” She couldn’t precisely describe the Stellaron or Paths in the language of this world, but she knew her Synesthesia Beacon had already conveyed her core concept.
Dumbledore’s eyes followed her finger up to the painted starry sky, then drifted back down to her, as though seeing beyond her ordinary human exterior to something resonating with the cosmos itself.
He nodded thoughtfully.
“I understand,” he said to Griphook and McGonagall.
“She does not lack a surname.
Rather, her surname—or the root of her existence—is not a family lineage that can be easily written down on parchment.
It is far older, and far vaster.” He turned back to Griphook, his voice carrying an unmistakable authority.
“Register her simply as ‘Stelle.'” Griphook muttered a few incomprehensible Goblin words, but under Dumbledore’s gaze, he begrudgingly began processing the paperwork.
McGonagall watched the exchange and raised no further objections.
Looking at the girl’s profile, she realized clearly for the first time that what this child carried might be far beyond her comprehension.
…
Next, they entered Ollivanders wand shop.
Inside the narrow, dust-covered shop, thousands of wand boxes were stacked up to the ceiling, the air thick with the combined scent of wood and ancient magic.
Mr.
Ollivander’s pale, moon-like eyes swept over Stelle.
“Ah, a rather tricky customer,” he muttered, his ladder sliding automatically along the shelves.
“I feel no affinity between you and any traditional core…
Dragon heartstring falls silent in your hands, unicorn hair grows restless…” He had Stelle try seven or eight wands.
Each time, the wand tip merely produced a few faint sparks or offered no reaction at all.
Stelle was not discouraged in the slightest.
Every time she received a new wand, it was like receiving a new toy.
She gave it a serious swish, then tilted her head to observe the weak response, as if conducting an entertaining experiment.
Ollivander’s brow furrowed tighter and tighter—not out of frustration, but sheer perplexity.
“Your magical signature is so strange, as if from the far shore…” he murmured to himself, turning to rifle through a bottom drawer.
“Perhaps we need materials that are less sensitive.” At last, he pulled out a rather plain-looking wand.
“Try this: Ash, dragon heartstring.
Eleven inches, reasonably supple,” he explained.
“Ash is loyal, dragon heartstring is powerful with good tolerance—it at least won’t go on strike in your hand.” Stelle took the wand.
The instant her fingertips brushed against the shaft, something strange happened.
An almost imperceptible speck of cosmic dust on her collar seemed to awaken, floating up of its own accord.
The speck sparkled with an extremely faint light, and under the astonished gazes of Ollivander and the two professors, it quietly merged into the tip of the wand as if drawn by a magnet.
“By Merlin!” Ollivander gasped.
“What was that?” In the next moment, a subtle transformation took place in the previously ordinary ash wand: faint silver veins surfaced within the dark wood, resembling the orbits of Stelles.
The wand emitted a steady, warm glow in Stelle’s hand.
It was neither blinding nor flashy, but resembled a steadfast Stelle in the night sky.
Stelle looked at the wand that seemed to have been lit up, her lips curving slightly into a satisfied and curious smile.
Ollivander was so excited his hands shook.
“Incredible!
An extraneous substance perfectly fused with dragon heartstring…
forming a truly unique core structure!” Stelle gave the wand a wave.
This time, a solid beam of silver light flowed smoothly from the tip, tracing an elegant path in the air before resolving into a spray of stardust that slowly floated down.
The entire process was smooth and natural, lacking exaggerated effects yet containing a deep, stable power.
“Perfect!” Ollivander stared at the scene, entranced.
“This wand belongs solely to you now, child.
It is made whole by you.” Dumbledore’s profound gaze shifted between the wand and Stelle.
“The most extraordinary magic often begins with the most modest materials,” he said softly.
“What matters is not where it comes from, but where it will point.” Seeing Stelle inspect the wand with novel interest, he added, “And how the one who wields it will write her own story.” As Stelle walked out of the shop holding the wand now bound to her destiny, no one noticed the tiny starlight occasionally flashing at its tip, as if silently responding to a call from the distant cosmos.
Meanwhile, Stelle held the wand up to her eyes every now and then, carefully examining its silver veins like getting to know a new friend.