“Then… can I return it?”
Barely two minutes after claiming the wand, Cedric was already drowning in regret.
He wanted to rewind time to the moment before Ollivander pulled out this money-burning stick and refuse it on the spot.
“No.”
Ollivander’s answer was absolute.
“The rule is the rule.
A customer chooses one wand from me.
Only one.”
He added, almost gently, “And frankly, this wand is worth every Knut.
I charged you for materials alone.
Ask Professor McGonagall if you doubt me.”
Cedric turned to her with the eyes of a puppy whose bone had just been stolen.
McGonagall clenched her jaw and gave a reluctant nod.
He sighed.
Deep down he knew Ollivander had no reason to cheat a child.
The name carried weight.
The price still hurt.
With the wand settled, a long list of required items remained.
McGonagall said her goodbyes and led him out.
Just as Cedric’s foot crossed the threshold, Ollivander’s voice followed.
“If you ever have free time, come help around the shop.
Odd jobs.
It will chip away at the debt.”
The offer was clearly meant as kindness.
Cedric glanced back, offered a brief, genuine look of thanks, and followed McGonagall into the street.
The rest of the afternoon was pure logistics.
He pulled out the Hogwarts acceptance letter, checked the list, and moved through Diagon Alley without needing further guidance.
Robes, uniform, pointed hat—all fitted to measure.
Cauldron.
First-year textbooks.
Dragon-hide gloves.
Brass scales.
Telescope.
A set of glass or crystal phials.
The shops were scattered.
Running from one to the next left him thoroughly worn out.
By the time he reached a storefront hung with dried plants, the light was beginning to fade.
This was the last stop: phials and cauldron.
McGonagall had stepped away on private business and told him to wait here once he finished.
With time to spare, Cedric did not rush to the counter.
He let his eyes travel the shelves instead.
Potion supplies.
Cauldrons of every size.
Fresh ingredients beside already-prepared ones.
The living plants still beaded with dew caught his attention hardest.
They carried Hunting Levels.
Plants counted as prey.
He kept his expression neutral and read the labels one by one.
The shop kept everything under Level 5—sensible, given the risk of fingers disappearing.
One specimen sat fist-sized in a heavy pot, bound with rope.
The label read Chinese Biting Cabbage.
Hunting Level: 5.
Its body was split down the middle, lined with saw-like teeth.
As Cedric drew closer it snarled and strained against the bindings, clearly eager to take a chunk out of his nose.
“Careful with that one,” the shopkeeper said.
She was a kindly-looking old woman whose face softened the moment she saw him—grandmothers had a hard time staying stern around a face like his.
“Vicious little things.
Every year St.
Mungo’s treats more than a dozen wizards who lost fingers to them.”
Cedric studied the struggling cabbage.
“How does it taste?”
“Huh?”
“I mean—is it edible?”
The old woman stared at him as if he had grown a second head.
“I… honestly couldn’t say.
No one has ever thought to find out.
Wizards use them for potions or train them to guard gardens.
No one puts them in their mouth.
If you’re hungry, I have a couple of sweets.”
She offered the candy with open pity, clearly convinced the boy had known real hunger.
“Wrong idea,” Cedric said, gently pushing the sweets away.
He did not explain further.
“How much for the pot?”
“You’re certain?
It’s not a toy.”
Her hesitation deepened once she realized he had asked about eating it.
“Please.
I’m only curious.
I want to study it.”
He blinked up at her, eyes wide and innocent, the picture of a sweet, harmless child.
The old woman’s resolve melted like soft butter.
She sold him the cabbage, walked him through the proper methods of handling and processing it, and then—somehow—gave him a steep discount on both the cabbage and the remaining supplies.
What should have cost at least five Galleons left his pocket at half that.
As he stepped out carrying the stacked boxes, she even offered home delivery.
He declined politely, caught his reflection in the shop window, and felt a quiet satisfaction settle in his chest.
Looks, it seemed, were a usable currency.
Discounts came easier when you had the right face.
McGonagall returned a short while later carrying a cage draped in black cloth.
“Everything sorted?”
“All bought, Professor.”
Curiosity about the cage burned, but a sensible child did not pry into a professor’s private errands.
“Good.
I’ll take you to the Leaky Cauldron.
You’ll stay there until the first of September.
After that your time is your own—just keep a close eye on your money.
The magical world has its share of pickpockets.”
“Understood, Professor.”
She looked pleased.
The boy who had first struck her as trouble was proving more practical than expected.
If he could only break the habit of wanting to eat owls, he might turn out quite well.
With that uncertain hope still in mind, she lifted the black cloth.
Inside the cage crouched an absurdly large crow—two full sizes bigger than any ordinary bird.
Its wing feathers caught the light with a dark, liquid sheen.
It could have gone toe-to-toe with a mail owl without embarrassment.
“Consider this a gift,” McGonagall said.