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The wood gleamed under the lamp—high-grade wax, perfect balance.
Holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches.
Completed the night the Boy Who Lived was born.
Its destined owner would arrive soon enough.
Destiny, Ollivander believed, deserved a little ceremony.
The doorbell rang.
“Welcome to Ollivanders—” He looked up with the usual professional smile.
The smile froze the instant his eyes passed the small witch in front and landed on the white-haired young man standing behind her.
“…Mr.
Styx.” The greeting came out strained.
“What a… pleasant surprise.
Is something wrong with the wand?” “Nothing at all, Mr.
Ollivander.
It’s an excellent wand.” Styx gave what he considered a friendly smile and gently guided Hermione forward.
“I’ve taken a post at Hogwarts—Dark Arts Practical.
I’m here to see that this year’s new students are properly equipped.” Ollivander’s eyes flickered.
A Hogwarts professor.
The last time this man had stood in the shop, Ollivander had privately wondered whether he was something wearing human skin.
Now Dumbledore had hired him.
He wiped a thin sheen of sweat from his brow and turned to the girl.
“Little witch, your name?” “Hermione Granger, sir.” “Writing hand?” “Right.” The measuring tape went to work.
A few moments later Ollivander returned from the upper shelves with a slim box.
“Try this one.” Vine wood, dragon heartstring, ten and three-quarter inches.
The moment Hermione’s fingers closed around the handle, a clean, brilliant light flared from the tip.
Tiny sparks danced in the air and faded.
Ollivander’s expression brightened with genuine interest.
“Interesting.
You understand, Miss Granger, that the wand chooses the wizard.
Vine is uncommon.
It rarely accepts ordinary talent—it prefers those who think.
Dragon heartstring favors bold, powerful magic and learns new spells faster than almost any other core.
It has little patience for weakness.” He carefully returned the wand to its box and slid it across the counter.
“Combinations of vine and dragon heartstring are rare.
The wood wants deliberation; the core wants decisiveness.
A witch who satisfies both…” He gave a small, knowing smile.
“You will be busy, Miss Granger.
Seven Galleons.
Treat it well, and it will give you more than any book ever could.” His gaze flicked briefly past her shoulder to Styx, then away again.
Outside the shop Hermione walked with the box hugged tightly to her chest, unable to keep the smile off her face.
She had a wand.
She was a witch.
Styx marked the list.
“Flourish and Blotts next.” Hermione’s head snapped up.
“We’re buying the books now?” She unfolded the supply list and began reading aloud under her breath.
“Standard Book of Spells, Grade One… A History of Magic… A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration…” She stopped.
“Professor, why isn’t there a textbook for your class?” “Hogwarts used to have only Defense Against the Dark Arts.
The Headmaster divided it—theory and practical.
You’ll have separate theory lessons.
In my class you won’t need books.” His tone shifted, quieter.
“When real danger arrives, no one gives you time to turn pages.
Dark wizards do not wait politely while you finish a chant.
My lessons will not be about sitting still and waving a wand.” Hermione nodded hard, already deciding she would treat the subject with absolute seriousness.
“Have you ever met dark wizards, Professor?” “Yes.” “Were they dangerous?” Images of Knockturn Alley and a certain thin, unpleasant man flickered through Styx’s mind.
He smiled without answering the question directly.
“In some ways.
You’re young.
Study hard.
Hogwarts is safe.” Even he tasted the lie in the last sentence.
They bought the rest of the books, then moved on to cauldrons, scales, phials, and the other standard supplies.
At Madam Malkin’s the proprietress greeted Styx warmly and asked how the robes she had made for him were holding up.
While she measured Hermione she kept up a light stream of conversation that gradually eased the girl’s nervousness.
Styx stood to one side and watched.
Hermione’s attention kept drifting toward the Magical Menagerie across the street.
In the window a flattened-faced ginger cat lay in a patch of sunlight, looking thoroughly unimpressed with the world.
Crookshanks.
In the original timeline Hermione would not meet him until third year.
For the first two years she had quietly envied Harry’s owl.
An early gift seemed reasonable.
“Stay here a moment, Miss Granger.
I’ll be right back.” “All right, Professor.” Three minutes later the cat was already paid for and waiting in a carrier.
Styx had no intention of presenting it today.
Christmas would be soon enough.
When the last item on the list was checked off, he walked Hermione home.
The Granger family came to the door smiling, ordinary and complete.
For a moment Styx saw the later photographs—empty spaces where people should have been, a girl standing in a crowd who had lost nothing and somehow lost everything.
He drew Hermione a few steps aside.
“Miss Granger.
I know you’re eager to begin practicing.
For the next month, do not attempt any Transfiguration on your own.
Do not cast magic at people.
And spend time with your family.” His voice softened.
“Family is the most valuable thing most of us ever have.
Remember that.” Hermione nodded solemnly, not fully understanding the weight behind the words but storing them carefully anyway.
From a quiet corner across the street, an old man with a long white beard watched the exchange without moving.
“Family… the most precious wealth.” Behind the half-moon spectacles, his eyes were briefly moist.
A small, satisfied smile touched his mouth.