Styx wandered Diagon Alley humming under his breath, completely off-key and completely unconcerned about the looks he collected.
A little boy with a neat middle part pointed.
“Mummy, that big brother sings so badly!” His mother yanked the hand down.
“Don’t point.
It’s rude.” “But he looks like a—” “Even if he is, you still don’t point.” Styx kept walking.
The first real stop was the shop that looked one strong wind away from collapse.
The sign read Ollivanders — Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.
He pushed the door open.
Dusty boxes stacked to the ceiling.
The interior stretched farther than the street front suggested—Undetectable Extension Charm, no question.
A ladder rattled.
A white-haired man with pale silver eyes slid down it with the speed of someone half his age.
“Good afternoon.
Welcome to Ollivanders.” Those eyes took him in carefully.
“I don’t believe I’ve ever sold you a wand.
First time?” “Yes, Mr.
Ollivander.
Mine was damaged.
I need a replacement.” “Ah.” A small, professional smile.
“You’ve come to the right place.
The Ollivander family has been matching wands for over two thousand years.
There will be one for you.” “Name and preferred hand?” “Lethean Styx.
Left.” The tape measure went to work—arm length, finger span, the usual ritual.
Ollivander disappeared into the stacks and returned with a slim box.
“Beech and unicorn hair, ten and a quarter inches.
Beech favors the open-minded and the wise.
Unicorn hair prefers a pure heart.
Give it a try.” Styx took the wand.
It tore itself out of his grip like it had been fired from a cannon and buried itself tip-first in the far wall, still vibrating.
Ollivander stared at the wall, then at Styx.
A thin, dry laugh escaped him.
“It appears the unicorn has… declined the acquaintance.
Perfectly normal.
The wand chooses the wizard, after all.
We’ll try another.” He vanished into the back.
When he returned his steps were slower, more careful, as if the thing in his hands might explode.
“This one has waited a long time.
Blackthorn and horned-serpent nerve, eleven and three-quarter inches.
Blackthorn only answers to those who have survived true hardship.
The nerve is rarer still—it has an affinity for ancient blood and buried secrets.
It also tends to notice danger before its master does.” Styx closed his fingers around the dark wood.
The temperature in the shop dropped a full degree.
Dust lifted from the counter in a slow, invisible current.
A cool, testing pressure slid from the handle into his wrist and stopped there, like a snake tasting the air.
Ollivander’s caution melted into something closer to fascination.
“Interesting.
Very interesting.
Blackthorn has always preferred those who walk in darkness without being claimed by it.” Styx gave the wand a slow turn.
The power settled, quiet and obedient.
“Excellent work, Mr.
Ollivander.
I’m satisfied.
Price?” “Seven Galleons.” “Fair.
Do you sell a proper care kit?
I’d rather not have it sulk for lack of oil.” “Three more for the full set—dragon-bone powder and the house blend of wood oil.” Styx laid ten Galleons on the counter, slipped the wand into system space, and left.
Behind him, Ollivander watched the door for a long time and said nothing.
Flourish and Blotts was next.
Crowds of school-age witches and wizards fought over textbook stacks.
Styx browsed, ears open.
“…previous Defense Against the Dark Arts professor resigned after the accident.” “That curse can’t be real.
No one lasts a full year.” “Even Dumbledore wouldn’t claim to understand every curse in the world.” A soft ding cut through the chatter.
[Host has made contact with the Hogwarts main storyline.] [Quest issued: Enter Hogwarts in the capacity of a professor.] [Reward: Random Evil Spirit Summon Card ×1, 10,000 Evil God Points.] [Reminder: Host has not checked in today.
Consecutive check-ins yield additional rewards.] Styx answered mentally.
“Check-in.” [Day 1 check-in complete.
+100 Evil God Points.] [Ten consecutive days grants a primary ten-draw ticket.] He almost smiled.
Going to Hogwarts as a professor.
Every proper fan had that daydream at least once.
How to actually get the job was another problem.
Walking into the castle and pointing a wand at Dumbledore’s throat felt inefficient.
He glanced at a clock in a neighboring window.
Seven already.
Finish the shopping, then food.
By the time he had cleared the rest of the street, every book and useful trinket sat safely in system space.
That was when the second problem appeared.
Diagon Alley had no real restaurants.
Dessert shops.
Sweet shops.
More dessert shops.
“I’m not a goddamn honeybee,” he muttered.
“Where’s the actual food?” Going all the way back to the Leaky Cauldron for a meal felt like a personal insult.
Then he saw it—at the far end of the main stretch, a narrow, downward-sloping mouth of an alley that looked like it had never seen sunlight.
A rotting sign hung above the entrance, letters almost worn away.
Knockturn Alley.
Styx rested his fingers against the cold blackthorn in his pocket and smiled without humor.
“New map unlocked, huh.
Might as well.”