You didn’t become manager of the biggest bookstore in Diagon Alley without quick reflexes.
The second Dumbledore made his declaration, the manager understood exactly what it meant.
Isaac was still processing the words when the man spoke.
“Understood, Professor Dumbledore.
Every purchase Mr.
Isaac Waldore makes in this store for the next seven years will be billed directly to the Headmaster’s office at Hogwarts.” “Excellent.
Thank you.” Dumbledore gave the manager a warm nod.
They stepped back out into the bustling street.
A few paces later, Dumbledore stopped and turned to Isaac with open curiosity.
The man had lived long enough that very little surprised him anymore.
Yet Isaac had managed it.
Isaac had always seemed older than his years—probably the prophet thing—but there was still something boyish underneath.
He wasn’t a real child, not really, yet the hormones and the excitement made him act like one sometimes.
An old soul in a young body.
Dumbledore had half-expected Isaac to refuse the gift out of pride.
Instead the boy looked thrilled, head swiveling left and right like he was searching for something important.
“What are you looking for, Isaac?” Dumbledore finally asked.
“I’m looking for a phoenix, Professor.” Dumbledore blinked.
“???” He genuinely had no idea what to say.
Young people’s thought processes moved too fast these days.
He hadn’t brought Fawkes with him.
Where on earth did Isaac expect to find one?
“I’m looking for my phoenix,” Isaac clarified, dead serious.
“Isn’t it true that when someone from the Dumbledore family needs help, a phoenix appears?
I could really use some help right now.
Plus, ‘Isaac Dumbledore’ has a nice ring to it.” Dumbledore laughed—loud, genuine, and not for the first time that day.
Escorting Tom Riddle all those years ago had been one of the most somber moments of his life.
Escorting Isaac was turning out to be one of the most joyful.
Was it because the two boys were fundamentally different?
Possibly.
Dumbledore wasn’t shallow enough to judge by appearance alone.
But those three elements—platinum hair, heterochromia, and the word “prophet”—carried enormous weight for him.
If Tom had possessed even one of those traits, things might have gone differently.
People had biases.
Even the greatest wizard of the age wasn’t immune.
“No, Isaac,” Dumbledore said gently, the smile fading into something quieter.
“Rather than becoming another Grindelwald… or another Dumbledore… follow your own heart.
Life itself is the greatest adventure.
The unknown is always the best challenge.” They continued through the rest of the list.
Madam Malkin’s for robes.
The cauldron shop for a sturdy pewter cauldron.
The apothecary for potion ingredients.
At every stop Dumbledore repeated the same thing: all seven years of Isaac’s school expenses were on him.
At Eeylops Owl Emporium they chose a strong, patient, good-natured owl.
Isaac named her Cuckoo—after the little yellow bird from Tom and Jerry that spent its life tormenting Tom.
Seemed fitting.
If magical Tom could be tormented too, all the better.
By the time they reached their final stop, both of them were loaded down with packages.
Ollivander’s Wand Shop.
The faded sign read: Ollivanders — Fine Wands Since 382 B.C.
Isaac smiled to himself.
Earlier he’d called the bookstore an arms dealer.
This place was the real thing—the wand shop was the true magical gun store.
Books were ammo.
Wands were the weapons.
The separation was neat.
Inside, the shop was narrow and crowded, thousands of narrow boxes stacked to the ceiling.
Dust and old magic hung thick in the air.
Of all the shops in Diagon Alley, this one felt the most magical to Isaac.
The bell above the door chimed.
Ollivander appeared behind the counter, smiling at them both.
“Good evening.” “Rather unusual to see you personally guiding a new student, Dumbledore.” Powerful wizards lived long lives, and the wizarding world was small.
Add Dumbledore’s fame and you got the biggest gossip source in Britain.
Yet the man who supposedly “imprisoned” himself at Hogwarts had a famously short temper for nonsense.
Half the ridiculous headlines about him were pure fiction, and he never bothered to correct them.
Some people mistook that patience for weakness.
Ollivander wasn’t one of them.
He knew Dumbledore spent most of his holidays hiding in the Headmaster’s office, dodging work while McGonagall covered for him.
So when the real Dumbledore walked into his shop, Ollivander’s first thought was: Someone’s used Polyjuice to impersonate him.
“This trip is rather special,” Dumbledore said cheerfully.
They were old friends.
A little catching up was welcome, and today had been the most relaxed day Dumbledore had enjoyed in a long time.
“Old stories can wait.
Let me see to our young guest first.
This young man—” Ollivander’s gaze landed on Isaac.
The words died in his throat.
He froze like someone had grabbed him by the neck.
Complete silence.