Dumbledore had departed for the castle, entrusting Minerva with the task of guiding Rick through his first proper steps into the magical world. Their destination, the Leaky Cauldron, turned out to be astonishingly close, just two blocks from the large public library Rick frequented with almost religious devotion. The moment Minerva casually pointed out the inconspicuous pub nestled between a record shop and a bookstore, Rick slapped his forehead in disbelief.
That place? That dusty, tucked away building he’d passed dozens of times? That was the gateway to an entire hidden world? It suddenly made sense, all the strange people he’d spotted now and then, dressed in outlandishly old fashioned or mismatched clothing, many of them far too young to be eccentric retirees. What once seemed like the oddities of city life now aligned like stars into a constellation. Magic had always been right there, two blocks from his reality.
Once inside, Minerva offered a polite nod to the barkeep, an elderly, hunched man named Tom who gave them a toothless grin, and led Rick through the dimly lit pub to a nondescript wooden door. Beyond it lay a small, walled courtyard that looked completely unremarkable. But then she raised her wand with the ease of someone who’d done this a hundred times and tapped a specific sequence of bricks on the wall ahead.
To Rick’s astonishment, the bricks began to shift and grind, folding back into the wall as if unlocking a secret passage. They peeled away in orderly succession, brick by brick, until a vast hidden alleyway came into view. Rick’s jaw slackened. The cobbled street ahead looked like something plucked out of a medieval painting, alive with crooked buildings, smoking chimneys, and signs that swung despite the still air. Shopfronts leaned at impossible angles, glittering with curiosities he couldn’t begin to name. It was chaotic, colorful, utterly unreal, and Rick wanted nothing more than to explore every inch of it. But Minerva moved with purpose, striding straight through the crowd, and he had no choice but to follow, until they stopped before the most imposing structure he’d ever seen.
‘Enter, stranger, but take heed
Of what awaits the sin of greed,
For those who take, but do not earn,
Must pay most dearly in their turn,
So if you seek beneath our floors
A treasure that was never yours,
Thief, you have been warned, beware
Of finding more than treasure there.’
“Oh, it's a bank.”
“Indeed it is, Mister Wald. The safest place in Great Britain, after Hogwarts, naturally,” Minerva said with a faint smile. “Gringotts was founded centuries ago by a goblin named Gringott and has since remained the sole bank of the wizarding world in Britain. You’d do well to be extremely respectful toward goblins. They’re not known for their warmth, but they are brilliant, proud, and incredibly capable. Crossing one is unwise, they are fierce, cunning, and utterly unyielding when wronged.”
“Yes, professor.”
They ascended the grand stone stairs of Gringotts, and Rick finally got a closer look at the goblin guards stationed at the entrance, short in stature, but anything but unimpressive. Their jagged teeth gleamed with a predator’s edge, and their long, spidery fingers ended in claws that looked capable of rending through stone, let alone flesh. Rick gave a respectful nod as he passed, not daring to linger under their piercing gazes.
The moment they stepped inside, he stopped short in awe. The interior was vast, impossibly vast, far larger than the modest facade suggested. Polished marble floors gleamed under glittering chandeliers, and towering columns stretched toward a ceiling so high it vanished into shadow. The air smelled faintly of parchment and old coin, heavy with the weight of ancient wealth.
Though the hour was early and the bank not yet crowded, the few patrons present exuded a quiet reverence, as if they stood in a temple rather than a financial institution. Rick followed Minerva in silent wonder as they approached one of the towering desks, where a goblin peered down from behind a gold plated nameplate, his expression carved from stone. Rick, more intrigued than intimidated, let the goblin’s haughty posture slide. His eyes were instead drawn to a massive drape behind the teller, embroidered in gold thread with the bank’s motto: bold, simple, and strangely ominous.
“Strength in loyalty.” he muttered to himself.
“That is correct, Mister Wald.” Minerva said, looking down at him and taking him by surprise. “Are you fluent in latin?”
“I can read and translate it perfectly, Professor, but not speak it,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish smile. He hadn’t meant to be overheard, and the sudden attention made his ears go slightly pink.
“Good, that will serve you well in Charms and several other subjects. Many spell incantations are derived from Latin, and understanding them can make spellwork far more intuitive.”
A goblin came from the back of the bank and gave a small pouch to Minerva who thanked him. Not wasting time she left the building, Rick in tow, and led him towards an establishment named Flourish & Botts. A bookstore where he got every single book on his supply list. They didn’t stay long there as Minerva asked for the ‘first year’ pack and the cashier pulled all the books out from under his desk. It was the same from all other stores they visited with the exception of his school robes. For that one, he had to have his measurements taken and it took some time.
Finally, after purchasing a small trunk with an Undetectable Extension Charm for extra space, they arrived at the final stop on their list: Ollivanders. The sign above the narrow, timeworn shop proudly declared it had been a family business for over two thousand years. As they stepped inside, a high pitched bell tinkled overhead, announcing their presence. The air was thick with dust and something older, magic that had soaked into the walls over generations. Shelves towered all the way to the ceiling, crammed with wand boxes that all looked identical in size, yet seemed to hum with individual energy. The space was quiet, reverent, like a library where the books could whisper back.
“Minerva McGonagall, Fir, nine and a half inches, with a dragon heartstring core. Exceptionally well suited for Transfiguration. If memory serves, it was my father who had the honor of pairing it with you.”
Rick turned his head sharply, his eyes locking onto a pale, gaunt man who seemed to glide out from a shadowy corner of the shop like he belonged to it. The stranger's eyes gleamed with uncanny sharpness beneath his silvery brows, and though his expression was neutral, there was something unsettling about how quiet his approach had been. With no one else in sight, Rick had no doubt, this was Ollivanders himself, and the voice from the darkness belonged to him.
“Indeed.”
“And what have we here?” the old man drawled, his pale eyes glinting with interest as he leaned forward slightly. “A soon to be Hogwarts student, if I’m not mistaken?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well. Which hand is your wand hand, Mister Wald?”
The man had brought out a measuring tape out of nowhere and began to take Rick’s measurement, waiting for an answer. Rick put the fact that the man knew his name thanks to magic.
“My right hand, sir.”
“Hm… Very well,” the old wandmaker murmured, his eyes gleaming with a strange mixture of curiosity and reverence. “Let us see which of my creations feels drawn to you.” With that, he turned and drifted toward the back of the shop, disappearing between towering stacks of wand boxes like a ghost among ancient relics.
“Drawn to me?” Rick echoed, brow furrowing in confusion. As far as he knew, wands were just tools, like a pen or a screwdriver. The idea that one could feel drawn to him, like it had a will or preference of its own, unsettled him slightly. Tools didn’t choose their user. Did they?
“The wand chose the wizard Mister Wald. Not the wizard, the wand. Here, try this one. Willow, 10 ¼ inches, unicorn hair.”
Rick took the wand from Ollivanders, and for a fleeting moment, he felt a tingle of something, an attempt at connection, like a whispered greeting that never quite turned into a conversation. It was as though the wand reached out, curious, but after a brief, silent exchange, both decided they were not meant for each other. Not out of rejection, but quiet acknowledgment that this was not the right match.
“What are you waiting for? Do the-”
“She likes me but we’re not a right fit.” Rick replied, handing the wand back.
Ollivanders studied his young client with quite the intensity, his silvery eyes narrowing slightly as if peering through Rick rather than at him. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he took the wand back into his hands, as though sensing the depth of the exchange that had just occurred. The silence stretched for a heartbeat longer before he finally spoke, his voice low and contemplative, unable to resist commenting on what he’d just witnessed.
“Very few witches and wizards can sense when a wand is not quite theirs, Mister Wald, fewer still can articulate why. It’s a rare intuition, one born from a deep sensitivity to magic most never develop.”
“I… I’m not sure, really. There was a connection, strong, immediate, but then it faded, like it chose to withdraw. Not out of rejection, but… with reluctance. Like we both knew it wasn’t the right match, even though part of it wished it was.”
To the side, Minerva observed with rapt attention, her keen eyes following every movement and word. In all her years at Hogwarts, she had only ever seen a handful of students recognize when a wand wasn’t a match, but never like this. Most simply felt discomfort or confusion. Rick, however, displayed an intuitive clarity, as though he could hear the wand’s unspoken thoughts. It wasn’t just awareness, it was a rare, almost empathic resonance. In her mind, it marked him as something truly exceptional.
“I see.” Ollivanders drawled.
He gently placed the wand back into its box and turned once more to the towering shelves, retrieving another with the solemn determination of a man digging through time itself. Rick accepted each wand in turn, but the next brought nothing, no spark, no pull, just wood and silence. So Ollivanders fetched another. And another. And another. As the minutes turned into a full hour, Minerva began to question whether the wandmaker had finally lost his touch, or worse, whether a suitable wand for Rick simply didn’t exist.
But Garrick Ollivanders showed no sign of doubt. His movements were as deliberate as ever, his resolve carved from the same ancient tradition that lined his shop. What fascinated Minerva more than his persistence was Rick’s calm. Where most children would have grown fidgety, frustrated, or anxious, he remained composed, no, more than that, assured. He knew he would not leave empty handed, as though the right wand was simply waiting its turn.
When he picked up the seventy fifth wand, something shifted. Rick inhaled sharply. This wand pulsed with potential. It wasn’t perfect, not yet, but it was undeniably powerful. The connection, though imperfect, was the second strongest he’d felt so far.
“Cypress, 11 ¾ inches, dragon heartstring.”
“Hmm… No?”
“Ah! A hesitation! What do you feel, Mister Wald?”
“That… it wants to bond, even though we’re not a perfect match. It… respects me, maybe even admires something in me, but it knows we won’t reach our peak together. There’s pride in it, yes, but also a kind of quiet sadness, like it wishes the circumstances were different.”
“Prodigious, simply, prodigious.” muttered the old man.
He crossed his arms, one long finger rhythmically tapping against his lips as his eyes took on a distant, calculating gleam. Rick could almost see the gears turning in the wandmaker's head, his mind sifting through centuries of knowledge. Then, as if struck by lightning, Ollivanders froze for half a second, his posture sharpening with sudden purpose. Without a word, he turned on his heel and vanished into the back, the swish of his robes the only sign he'd been there at all. Moments later, he returned, cradling a single wand box like it was a relic unearthed from legend, the seventy seventh.
“Cedar, 13 inches, phoenix feather.”
Rick hadn’t even touched the wand when he felt it, an overwhelming surge of connection, deeper than anything he had experienced before. It wasn’t just resonance; it was recognition, like something long lost clicking into place. A piece of himself he’d never known was missing had suddenly been returned, and in that moment, he felt whole in a way that defied explanation.
“That’s the one.” he whispered as he took it in hand. The connection became even stronger and he didn’t think it was possible. He felt great, perfect even and the look on Garrick Ollivanders’ face told him everything he needed to know. He and the wand found themselves.
“It seems the wand chose you, Mister Wald. That would be seven galleons.”
Minerva stepped forward from behind Rick and paid the man with quiet efficiency. Rick, still buzzing with curiosity, began asking questions, mostly about wandlore, eager to understand the significance of wood types and core materials. Ollivanders answered with a patient, almost cryptic smile, telling him that the subject was far too deep and nuanced for a short conversation and that a dedicated book would serve him better. Rick thanked him earnestly, though he would have happily spent hours in the shop just asking questions. As he turned, he caught Minerva’s subtle look, polite, composed, but clearly indicating she wished to speak privately with the wandmaker. Understanding, Rick gave a respectful nod and stepped outside to wait, the door chiming softly behind him.
“I think you found the first of your new lions, Minerva.”
“I think I found a hatstall. So far the only traits of character he didn’t show was the one snakes are known for.”
“A hatstall he may well be, Minerva, but mark my words, he’s a lion,” Garrick said with unshakable conviction. So firm was his belief that Minerva paused, studying his expression to gauge the depth of his certainty. “Cedar is a rare wood in my inventory. My father always told me it chooses witches and wizards with formidable strength of character and a loyalty that borders on legendary. Personally, I’d never cross someone wielding one, especially if someone they care for is in danger. ”
“Why so?” She was intrigued.
“Because when provoked, they become the most fearsome of adversaries. Like lions, they appear calm and composed, almost disarmingly so. But disturb that peace, and you awaken a predator with razor focus and overwhelming force. In that moment, you're no longer dealing with a person, you’re facing instinct wrapped in fury.”
Minerva regarded Garrick in thoughtful silence once more. His gaze remained unwavering, locked on Rick as the boy stood outside, taking in the world with a mix of wonder and careful scrutiny. For a brief instant, her eyes flicked to her future student, noting the quiet intensity in his expression, before returning to the man beside her, both figures linked by a shared anticipation of what was yet to come.
“What about his ability to… feel the wand’s intent?”
“Remarkable, though not entirely unique. To such a degree, however, it’s quite exceptional. It’s less a conventional gift and more an outcome of profound openness. The more receptive and attuned a person is to the nature of magic, the more finely they perceive the subtle intentions woven into every spell and charm. It’s also possible that it is an hereditary trait.”
Minerva nodded in understanding and bid Garrick goodbye. She joined Rick outside, and together they made their way back up the alley toward the Leaky Cauldron. As they passed S. Starling, a quaint pet shop tucked between crooked storefronts, a sudden crash shattered the quiet, a window smashed, and a dark, flapping mass hurtled through the opening, landing squarely atop Rick’s head. The shock rooted him to the spot, unable to move. Even Minerva’s eyes widened in surprise. The unmistakable caw echoed sharply in the air, quickly followed by the sharp cry of the pet shop owner bursting onto the street.
“Bloody bird!” the middle aged woman wearing a feathers hat said as she came outside in a hurry. “Breaking my window and bothering passersbies?! Come back here!”
The caw of defiance the woman received was unmistakably clear to Rick, who froze in uncertainty. When the pet shop owner reached to grab the crow perched atop his head, the bird retaliated with a fierce bite and swiftly settled on Rick’s shoulder.
“... Just my luck. You found yourself an owner.”
“I don’t have the means to pay for it!” Rick quickly said in response to the anger the woman displayed.
"Take it, it’s free. That blasted bird’s been nothing but trouble for me and the other birds ever since it showed up here. Good riddance, if you ask me," she said with a wave. With a flick of her wand, she swiftly repaired the broken window, then turned on her heel and stormed back into her shop, slamming the door behind her.
Rick’s jaw dropped a little in shock then turned to Minerva for answers.
“It seems like this crow is now your familiar.”
“I… Alright but… How am I supposed to take care of it while at Hogwarts? Only-”
“Owls, cats and toads are permitted for students. There are exceptions sometimes, most notably in the case of a familiar and as long as they’re not dangerous. I think we could make one in this case.”
“I don’t have the money for a cage or food or…”
"You don’t have to worry about that."
Caw
"Crows are fiercely independent creatures, perfectly capable of fending for themselves. In fact, it’s quite extraordinary that this particular one chose to bond with you as a familiar, it speaks volumes about the connection you two share."
Caw
After Rick gently scratched beneath the crow’s chin with his finger, the unlikely pair continued their way toward the Leaky Cauldron, eventually heading back to Wool’s Orphanage. Minerva gave Rick a stern warning: using a wand outside Hogwarts before coming of age was illegal and carried severe consequences. With that, she bid him farewell. Turning toward the magical pub, she approached the chimney, where a small container of sparkling powder awaited. Dropping three bronze coins into the slot, she scooped up a handful of the shimmering substance and disappeared into the chimney in a swirl of green flames.
“The three broomsticks, Hogsmeade.” she said clearly and threw the powder at her feet. Green flames burst up and when they rescinded Minerva was gone. She appeared in Scotland in the village of Hogsmeade, not far from Hogwarts. Half an hour walk at best but she prefered to apparate right at the gate of the castle. She arrived just in time for lunch to be served and joined Albus and Fillius at the teachers’ table. They were the only ones present and she thought her other colleagues had more important things to do.
“Ah! Minerva! I would have thought you would have come back sooner. Did something happen with young Mister Wald?”
“You can say that again, Albus.” she replied with a sigh and took her usual seat.
“So, that’s where you went this morning. Visiting that young student who wrote to you.” commented Fillius, interested in his friend’s morning activities.
“Indeed and I’m glad I did. I witnessed things that I never thought were possible.” she replied, taking a sip of pumpkin juice.
““Oh?””
“Mister Wald went through 76 wands before Garrick found one which matched.”
““76?!””
“That must be a record, I think.” wondered Albus aloud.
“I don’t know about that. Garrick was more captivated by Mister Wald's extraordinary sensitivity, the ability to perceive and interpret the subtle intent woven within each wand’s magic with remarkable precision. While not entirely unheard of, the depth and clarity with which he did so is exceptionally rare.”
“I have read that such a thing was possible for people with a very open mind toward magic.” noted Fillius and Albus agreed with a nod.
“That’s what Garrick said too. He also thinks he’s a future lion though I believe it’s a toss up with Ravenclaw. He’ll be a hatstall, that I’m sure of.”
“On what basis do you think that?”
Minerva had Fillius’ attention earlier now she had his interest.
“He’s smart, perceptive and understands very fast what’s happening and how things work around him. Barely eleven and already fluent in latin. From what I remember, muggles don’t teach the language at all. Not in the United Kingdom at least.”
“Oooh, I like what I’m hearing.”
“Definitely traits of a Ravenclaw, yet Garrick thinks he’s going to be a Grynffindor? Could it be because of the wand’s wood?” Albus wondered aloud more to himself than his colleagues.
“Cedar. That's the wood his wand is made of.”
“Ah! Gryffindor indeed.”
“You can tell where a student will go by the wood of their wand now?” asked a surprised and confused Fillius.
“Not exactly but in the case of Cedar, I’d say yes. Very few wizards or witches are partnered with a wand made of this wood. Most of them usually end up in Gryffindor. The only one I know who didn’t is Horace.”
In his mind, Albus felt a wave of relief upon hearing this news. The time he'd spent with the boy had made it clear that Rick was nothing like Tom, though a lingering doubt had remained. Now, reassured by the knowledge of the kind of person a cedar wand chose, those doubts began to fade.
“Then as we made our way back to the Leaky Cauldron, a crow broke free of S. Starling and bonded with him. That reminds me, I need to fill a permission form to allow Mister Wald to bring it to Hogwarts.”
“That was quite the morning.”
Meanwhile, Rick sat in his room at the orphanage with the window wide open, leaning on its edge as he gently scratched the sleek dark feathers of his familiar. A broad smile spread across his face, disbelief and joy mingling in his eyes. The morning’s events had shattered every doubt, magic was real, and he was no longer alone in this world. This realization filled him with cautious hope; perhaps he could connect with others, make friends, just as his familiar had unexpectedly bonded with him. In truth, it felt more like the crow had chosen him. He’d been impressed by the owl’s keen intellect, the same owl that had delivered his Hogwarts letter, but the crow perched before him was a different sort of intelligence altogether. Much like how he’d sensed the unique intent behind each wand he’d tested but fully understood only his own, Rick felt he partially comprehended the post owl’s messages, and truly understood his crow in ways words couldn’t capture. Their connection was so profound, so inseparable, that he instinctively knew the crow was female without even needing to ask. Playfully, he tried out a silly name for her, but her response quickly shifted from indifferent to fierce, so much so that she bit his finger sharply, drawing a small bead of blood.
“Alright, alright. Sheesh, you have no humor!” he said quickly, washing his wounded finger with a glass of water to not catch something nasty. He would need to see Miss Wilson to treat the cut properly. “How about Morrigan?”
This time the crow said nothing but he felt she was content with it.