Sirius appeared at the bottom of the grand Gringotts marble stairs with a sharp crack, followed a second later by Vernon stepping smoothly out of a heavy displacement pop. Sirius cleared his throat, dusting off his traveling cloak, only to freeze mid-step.
Leaning casually against one of the massive white pillars, arms crossed over his dark jumper, was Harry. He looked entirely unfazed, a faint, amused smirk playing on his lips as he watched his godfather and uncle finish their arrival.
"You took your time, Sirius," Harry said smoothly, "I was beginning to think you got lost somewhere."
Sirius stood on the step below him, hands resting on his knees as he caught his breath, staring up at his eleven-year-old godson in utter shock.
"How... how in Merlin's name did you do that?" Sirius gasped out, his grey eyes wide with disbelief. "No crack? Harry, that wasn't standard Apparition."
Harry straightened up, uncrossing his arms. "Standard Apparition is very crude, Sirius. It depends on having your magical energy flow in an uncontrolled burst of torrent, which creates that noise. If you simply control your magical energy, the sound completely vanishes. And so does that jarring feeling."
Vernon let out a short, approving hum, straightening his cuffs. "Told you he is quite the prodigy. Scared the living daylights out of Petunia the first time he did it."
Sirius stared at Harry for three full seconds before letting out a loud, breathless bark of laughter, rubbing his face with both hands. "Unbelievable. James would be boasting to the entire alley right now, and Lily would be throwing a fit over safety protocols. Come on, you terrifying prodigy. Let's get inside before you decide to give me another heart attack."
They climbed the rest of the white steps together, passing the towering bronze doors flanked by stern, silver-armored goblin guards who bowed curtly as Sirius and Vernon approached, recognizing the authoritative posture of two formidable men despite Sirius's gaunt appearance.
Inside, the grand marble hall was buzzing with activity. Dozens of goblins sat on high stools behind a long counter, weighing coins, examining precious stones, and scribbling furiously in heavy ledgers. Sirius led the way straight toward the high central podium, where an elderly, particularly sharp-featured goblin sat reviewing a thick parchment scroll.
"I was called for an audience with Director Ragnok regarding the House of Black accounts," Sirius stated, his voice instantly shifting into the cool, authoritative tone of a pureblood Lord.
The goblin snapped his head up, dark, calculating eyes sweeping over Sirius, then Vernon, before landing on the remarkably calm boy standing beside them. Recognizing the signet rings and the distinct air of high standing, the goblin offered a sharp, toothy bow.
"Welcome back to the living world, Lord Black," the goblin rasped. "Director Ragnok has kept your files personal since news of your exoneration broke. Right this way."
They were guided down winding, torch-lit stone corridors lined with ancient runic arrays and heavy iron doors, descending deep beneath the city until they reached a grand door crafted from dark obsidian, guarded by two heavily armored goblin spearmen. The doors swung open silently, revealing a massive subterranean office lined with ancient goblin weaponry and rich silver tapestries.
Sitting behind a desk carved from a solid block of black granite was Ragnok, the Senior Account Manager of the House of Black.
"Lord Black," Ragnok greeted, his voice deep and raspy, like heavy stones grinding together. "And Lord Dursley. It is a notable sight to see you both standing here. Gringotts extends its official recognition of your complete exoneration, Sirius."
"Thank you, Ragnok," Sirius said, dropping smoothly into one of the heavy leather chairs before the desk, looking far more at home in the high-stakes environment than he had ten minutes prior. Vernon took the neighboring chair with practiced, quiet authority, placing his heavy hands over his cane while Harry remained standing near the side wall, his arms folded loosely behind his back.
Rather than sitting passively, Harry allowed his refined magical sense to drift outward. He pushed his awareness straight into the thick granite walls, exploring the complex, ancient magic woven into the bank's deep foundation. He traced the dense runic arrays, feeling the heavy spatial compression barriers, the kinetic suppression fields, and the violent, cleansing pulse of the Thief's Downfall far below.
Suddenly, a sharp, metallic voice broke the silence of the office.
"We do not appreciate unauthorized magical probing within these walls, Mr. Potter," Ragnok snapped, his sharp black eyes locking onto Harry with sudden, razor-like intensity.
Sirius blinked, looking over at Harry in surprise, while Vernon merely leaned back, an amused twitch at the corner of his mustache.
Harry opened his eyes, offering a completely calm, unbothered smile. "My apologies, Director Ragnok. I meant no disrespect. I was merely admiring your structural warding. It's fascinating how the very foundation is woven with runic arrays. Not to mention the interesting bit of magic in that waterfall."
Ragnok froze. The elderly goblin slowly leaned forward over his granite desk, his sharp eyes narrowing as he scrutinized the young boy.
"You are quite perceptive," Ragnok noted, his voice dropping an octave, laced with genuine shock. "Those arrays were laid hundreds of years ago by goblin grand-masters, and they are meant to be entirely invisible to human perception."
"Again, apologies for prying," Harry replied smoothly. "I was just curious, and I mean no harm."
Vernon let out a deep sigh. "I apologize for my son's behavior Ragnok. And Harry, control your curiosity a bit, son. "
Sirius smirked, shaking his head. "That is my godson for you. He tends to dismantle expectations before most wizards have finished reading the headlines."
Ragnok stared at Harry for a long moment before giving a slow, respectful nod of his heavy head. "Fascinating. I have never met any wizard like you before. You are quite an extraordinary child, Harry Potter."
Turning back to the desk, Ragnok unrolled a massive parchment ledger bound in dragon hide. "Now, to business. With your full exoneration formally registered by the Wizengamot and the Ministry, the freeze placed upon the House of Black accounts has been lifted entirely. As the undisputed Head of the House, full authority over all family vaults, real estate, and liquid assets is restored to you."
Ragnok turned the ledger toward Sirius, tapping a long, clawed finger against a ledger total written in glowing silver ink.
"The total liquid assets across the primary, secondary, and ancestral vaults of the House of Black currently stand at three hundred and forty-two million, five hundred thousand Galleons," Ragnok declared. "This excludes real estate holdings, heirloom artifacts, and ongoing investments managed by your grandfather."
Sirius stared at the silver number glowing on the parchment, a sudden shadow of deep discomfort flickering across his gaunt face. He leaned back, staring down at his hands.
"Three hundred and forty-two million..." Sirius murmured, his voice dropping into a bitter whisper. "And every single coin was accumulated through centuries of dark magic, blood purism, and family cruelty."
The room fell completely quiet. Ragnok remained still, watching the wizard with neutral, calculating eyes.
Vernon glanced at Sirius, his expression measured and practical. "It is just coin, Sirius. It has no loyalty to whoever earned it."
Harry stepped forward, nodding in agreement with his father. "Gold does not carry a morality, Sirius."
Sirius looked up, meeting his godson's green eyes.
"Your family's money might have been acquired by various means, but that doesn't matter," Harry continued calmly. "It does not care if it was earned by a saint or hoarded by a tyrant. What matters is not where the money came from, Sirius. What matters is what you choose to build with it today. If you leave it sitting in a dark vault because you feel guilty, it remains a monument to your family's worst impulses."
Ragnok looked at Harry, a rare, genuine grin pulling at the goblin's thin lips, revealing rows of razor-sharp teeth. "Extremely wise counsel, young master. You understand the true nature of wealth far better than most fully grown wizards who walk through these doors."
Vernon chuckled softly, adjusting his rings. "Listen to the boy, Sirius. If you don't want the coin sitting idle, put it to work. Invest it, build something, or use it to clear your family's mess."
Sirius stared between Vernon and Harry, letting their words settle deep into his mind. Slowly, the dark shadow on his face dissolved, replaced by a soft, marveling smile.
"Merlin's beard," Sirius laughed softly, shaking his head as he rubbed the back of his neck. "I really do have the most brilliant family, don't I?"
"Unquestionably," Ragnok agreed dryly.
"I guess I will have to try and live up to his expectations then," Sirius said, standing up and pulling a heavy silver signet ring bearing the crest of the House of Black from his pocket, slipping it firmly onto his finger. "I will take full control of the Black family assets, Ragnok. Harry is right. What I do with this gold matters much more than how it was made."
After finalizing the paperwork, Harry unzipped his subspace pouch and dropped a stack of roughly one hundred Galleons straight inside for the upcoming school term.
As the three of them stepped out of the grand bronze doors of Gringotts into the bright afternoon glare, Vernon adjusted his dark coat and checked his wrist.
"Well, this is where I part ways with you two," Vernon said, turning to Sirius and Harry with a calm smile. "I have a business meeting scheduled at the Leaky Cauldron with an importer from abroad. I'll take care of my affairs there and meet you both back home for dinner."
Vernon gave Harry a warm, approving pat on the shoulder, exchanged a brief nod with Sirius, and strode down the white marble steps toward the lower alley. Sirius tucked his newly issued subspace pouch securely inside his charcoal jacket.
"Right then!" Sirius said, clapping his hands together with newfound energy, looking lively and sharp. "First stop: Flourish and Blotts. I am buying you every single book you can lay your hands on, Harry."
Harry paused, looking at his godfather with a slight smirk. "Sirius, you really do not need to do that. I have everything I need and more, not to mention I recently went shopping to get everything I might need for Hogwarts."
"Harry," Sirius interrupted, his tone softening instantly as he rested a firm, warm hand on the boy's shoulder. "Please. For eleven years, I sat in a cold cell unable to buy you a single toy, a single book, or give you a single hug. Let me do this for you. Let me be your godfather."
Harry looked at the deep sincerity burning in Sirius's grey eyes. He felt the genuine love behind the offer, but even then. Sirius couldn't buy anything that Harry needed because Harry already had too much. But then again, he couldn't get enough books, so many a few of those wouldn't hurt.
Harry offered a warm, genuine smile. "Alright, Sirius. But do not complain when the stack of books breaks your arms."
Sirius's laugh barked out loud and sudden. He slung an arm around Harry's shoulders and steered him down the cobbled street. "Come on, pup. Let's go bankrupt a bookstore."
The heavy brass bell above Flourish and Blotts chimed as they pushed the doors open. Inside, the shop smelled of old parchment, binding glue, and warm lamp oil. Towering oak shelves rose toward the vaulted ceiling in crooked, overstuffed rows. Floating displays drifted slowly between the aisles, pages turning themselves as if impatient to be read.
Sirius practically vibrated with energy. The gaunt shadow of Azkaban had not fully left his face, but under the warm light of the shop it looked thinner, less permanent. He spread both arms wide toward the endless walls of books.
"Alright, Harry. Ancient magic? Advanced defence? Runes? Ritual theory? Point at whatever you want. We are taking the entire shelf if it looks interesting."
Harry moved into the aisles at a measured pace, eyes already scanning spines with the focused calm of someone who knew exactly what he was hunting. "I'm mostly looking for master-level material. I've already finished the standard Hogwarts curriculum and most of the intermediate theory."
Sirius stopped mid-step. "Master-level? At eleven?"
"Photographic memory," Harry said simply, sliding a heavy dark-green volume titled Theoretical Transmogrification across Complex Structures from the shelf. "Once I read something, I don't forget it. So the usual textbooks are… less useful now."
Sirius stared at him for a full three seconds, then let out a low, incredulous whistle. "Sweet Merlin. You really are a little monster, aren't you?"
Harry's mouth twitched. "Having a perfect memory doesn't make me a monster, Sirius. It just makes the library more interesting."
Before Harry could open the cover, Sirius plucked the book from his hands and held it up like a trophy. "Promising, is it? Looks bloody terrifying to me. Not that I understand a single diagram." He turned toward the counter and raised his voice. "Mr Flourish! Bring every advanced volume you have that this one hasn't already bought."
Mr. Flourish looked at Sirius with his half-moon spectacles. "All of them, Mr. Black? That would be... rather extensive."
"All of them," Sirius confirmed cheerfully. "My godson appears to have eaten the entire Hogwarts reading list for breakfast."
Mr Flourish's eyes flicked to Harry and softened with recognition. "Ah. Young Mr Potter. Yes, he is already our most frequent and youngest master-level customer. Very well." He disappeared into the back with a resigned sort of determination.
Harry and Sirius waited near the front while assistants began ferrying armfuls of books to the long oak counter. The pile grew with alarming speed: thick tomes on spatial theory, advanced arithmancy, restricted defensive magic, experimental potion matrices, and several volumes whose titles were written in scripts that shifted when looked at directly.
When the final book settled onto the mountain, Mr Flourish wiped his forehead and consulted a long parchment. "One hundred and thirty-two volumes. Total comes to seven thousand three hundred and four Galleons."
Even Sirius blinked.
Harry raised an eyebrow. "That is… a substantial number."
Sirius recovered quickly. He reached into his inner jacket pocket and drew out a slim, black leather cheque-book embossed with the Black family crest. With a practiced flick of his wand he filled out the amount, signed it, and slid the draft across the counter.
"Charge it to the Black family vault. Primary account."
Mr. Flourish examined the cheque, then gave a short, respectful nod. "Very well, Mr. Black. Have a good day ahead Mr. Potter, wishing you an excellent Hogwarts year, although I don't doubt you will have quite the busy one considering the number of books you purchased." He added with a chuckle.
While Mr Flourish began sealing the books into a series of temporary protective cases, Sirius turned to Harry.
"Got your pouch?"
Harry opened the small, unassuming subspace pouch at his belt. One by one the charmed cases disappeared into it with soft pops, the pouch remaining flat and light no matter how many volumes vanished inside. Within two minutes the entire mountain of books was gone.
Mr Flourish handed Sirius a small brass receipt token. "Everything is accounted for. Safe travels, and… it's good to see you both here."
Sirius pocketed the token, then draped an arm around Harry's shoulders as they stepped back out into the afternoon light of Diagon Alley.
Sirius steered Harry away from Flourish and Blotts, his long charcoal coat swirling around his boots as he practically dragged his godson toward a bright, chaotic storefront featuring animated fireworks bursting across the top display windows.
Above the arching doorway, a glowing wooden sign read Gambol and Japes Wizarding Joke Shop.
"Now this," Sirius announced, pointing a dramatic finger at the display of screaming yo-yos and self-inking insult quills, "is where the real education begins. Your father and I would have been expelled in our first week if we hadn't stocked up on essential gear from shops like this."
Harry looked at the shelves crammed with stinkpelts, hiccups sweets, and boxes of Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder. Truthfully, Harry had zero interest in low-level gag items. Throwing dungbombs down corridors felt utterly crude when he could casually alter the structural geometry of a room's floorboards if he truly wanted to disrupt a hallway.
However, as Harry looked at Sirius, whose grey eyes were bright with an eager, almost childlike hope, he swallowed his mild disdain. He was not going to strip away his godfather's joy over a handful of joke items. Besides, Harry thought with a subtle smirk, he could always hand the entire haul over to Fred and George Weasley. The twins would treat a box of Gambol and Japes inventory like sacred relics.
"Alright, Sirius," Harry said, offering a small, indulgence-filled smile. "Show me what you consider essential."
Sirius grinned brightly, immediately piling boxes of Dr. Filibuster's Fabulous Wet-Start, No-Heat Fireworks, three tins of Ever-Bashing Boomerangs, and a handful of trick cards onto the glass counter.
"Barker!" Sirius called out to the shopkeeper before realizing where he was. "Er, whoever is at the register! We will take all of this!"
The shopkeeper quickly wrung up the items, and Sirius tossed a small stack of Galleons onto the counter, taking the receipt token before handing the neatly wrapped parcel to Harry.
"Put those somewhere safe, kid," Sirius advised solemnly. "You never know when a well-timed smoke pellet will save your life during a boring History of Magic lecture."
"I shall keep that profound wisdom close to my heart," Harry replied dryly, unzipping his subspace pouch and letting the parcel drop into the void before sealing it again.
Sirius tapped his chin, scanning the rest of Diagon Alley with a critical eye as they stepped back into the sunlight.
"Now then," Sirius mused, his gaze floating past the standard clothing shops. "We need attire. But knowing Petunia... she has already dressed you like a young prince in formal robes and tailored dress cloaks, hasn't she?"
"She certainly does," Harry admitted with a quiet chuckle. "My wardrobe at home is practically overflowing with luxurious robes and formal attires, so much that I literally find new ones every now and then."
"Ex-actly!" Sirius clapped his hands together. "Petunia always had an eye for regal, aristocratic formalwear. Which means you are utterly lacking in proper, high-end casuals! If you are lounging in the common room or walking around the grounds on a Sunday, you need something comfortable, but stylish. And no off-the-rack wool."
Before Harry could object, Sirius grabbed his shoulder and steered him past Madam Malkin's without a second glance, marching straight toward a quiet, remarkably elegant establishment situated in the wealthier upper stretch of the alley: Twilfitt and Tatting's.
"Sirius, I assure you, I have enough clothes," Harry noted as they approached the polished brass doors.
"Nonsense. Robes are for classes and state dinners, Harry. We are buying proper casuals today," Sirius insisted, pushing the heavy glass doors open.
Inside, Twilfitt and Tatting's was an exercise in quiet, expensive luxury. Deep velvet carpets muffled their footsteps, and soft orchestral magic hummed in the background. A refined, middle-aged wizard in a perfectly cut dark suit glided forward, his eyes widening slightly as he recognized Sirius's aristocratic posture and the House of Black signet ring on his hand.
"Lord Black," the tailor bowed smoothly. "A distinct honor. How may Twilfitt and Tatting's serve you today?"
"No robes," Sirius stated immediately, waving a dismissive hand. "My godson here is already covered for formalwear. We need luxury casuals. High-grade dragon-hide boots, acromantula-silk jumpers, tailored trousers made from fine cashmere blends, and everyday traveling jackets. Nothing stuffy, but everything of the absolute highest quality."
Harry sighed softly, taking a seat on a plush velvet armchair as the tailor summoned floating measuring tapes. "Must we get acromantula silk for simple jumpers, Sirius?"
"Of course we must!" Sirius declared, perching on the arm of the chair beside him. "It is lightweight, naturally temperature-enchanted, and virtually tear-proof. If you are going to lounge around, you might as well do it in absolute comfort."
For the next half hour, Harry was fitted for bespoke leather boots, tailored dark trousers, effortless everyday jumpers, t-shirts, shirts, jeans, night wears, and three lightweight velvet-lined traveling jackets. Every time Harry tried to decline an item, Sirius simply gestured to the tailor to add two more in different colors, completely unbothered by the exorbitant prices being tallied on the register.
By the time the transaction was completed via another Black family bank draft, the neatly wrapped boxes of high-end casualwear were paid for, stamped, and swiftly transferred into Harry's subspace pouch, leaving the young wizard thoroughly pampered and his godfather thoroughly satisfied.
Sirius practically dragged Harry past Sugarplum's Sweets, tossing a heavy sack of Galleons onto the register for three massive boxes of assorted magical chocolates and sugar skulls before the cashier could even ring them up.
"Every wizard needs a proper sugar stash for the Hogwarts Express," Sirius insisted as Harry smoothly stowed the wrapped parcel into his subspace pouch. "No arguments!"
Moving swiftly down the cobbled street, their next stop was Eeylops Owl Emporium. The cool, dim shop smelled of cedar and straw, with rows of sleeping owls perched along the walls.
Harry walked past the screech owls and barn owls, stopping at the back corner where a magnificent snowy owl sat on a polished brass perch. Her pure white plumage was flecked with stark black spots, and her large, brilliant amber eyes locked onto Harry with immediate, quiet intelligence. She didn't flutter or hoot nervously. She simply tilted her head, inspecting him.
Harry reached through the bars, and the owl leaned down, gently nipping his knuckle with affectionate precision.
"She likes you," Sirius noted, looking impressed. "A snowy owl. Smart, fast, and fiercely loyal."
"We will take her," Harry said softly.
Sirius paid the shopkeeper for the owl, her brass cage, and a full supply kit. Once the transaction was finalized and the supplies were safely stowed in the subspace pouch, Harry held the brass cage carrying his new companion.
"What are you going to name her?" Sirius asked as they stepped back out into the sunlight.
"Hedwig," Harry replied, smiling as the owl offered a proud, quiet hoot. She looked exactly like Hedwig.
Sirius and Harry stepped back out onto the sunlit cobblestones of Diagon Alley, Harry's subspace pouch now securely holding his massive collection of books, luxury casualwear, and small joke items.
As they walked past Quality Quidditch Supplies, Sirius suddenly stopped dead in his tracks, staring into the front glass display window. Resting on a velvet pedestal was a sleek, polished broomstick with silver footrests and a streamlined mahogany tail.
"Oh, brilliant!" Sirius gasped, his eyes lighting up with wild excitement. "Look at that sweeping tail-line! Harry, we need to get you a Nimbus 2000!"
Sirius grabbed Harry's shoulder and began pulling him toward the shop entrance, but Harry planted his feet firmly on the pavement, refusing to move.
"Sirius, no," Harry said firmly. "First years are not allowed to have their own broomsticks at Hogwarts."
Sirius stopped, looking back at Harry in absolute astonishment and then laughed as he remembered something. "Oh right. Do you know why that rule even exists, Harry?"
Harry raised an eyebrow as they resumed walking down the street. "Why?"
"Because of your father!" Sirius declared loudly, pacing beside him. "In our first week at Hogwarts, James decided standard flying lessons were far too boring. So during our very first afternoon break, he charmed his personal broom, sneaked out onto the grounds, and tried to fly it full speed past the Whomping Willow!"
Harry couldn't help the soft laugh that escaped his lips. "What happened?"
"What happened?" Sirius grinned, making a wild crashing motion with his hands. "The tree smashed the broom into splinters, swatted James clean out of the air, and sent him flying into the pumpkin patch! He landed in the Hospital Wing with six broken ribs, a fractured wrist, and a concussion! McGonagall were so furious that ever since that exact week, Hogwarts banned first years from bringing personal brooms!"
Harry chuckled warmly. "That sounds entirely like something Dad would do."
"Oh, it gets better!" Sirius laughed, leaning in close. "Your dad, Vernon, was in his first year when James, Remus, Lily, and I were in our second year. Vernon was determined not to be outdone. He tried to smuggle a high-end racing broom into Hogwarts, disguised as a formal attire."
Harry raised an eyebrow, genuinely amused. "Did he succeed?"
"He made it all the way to the Great Hall for the Sorting Feast!" Sirius barked with laugher. "And McGonagall was informed by one of the house-elf, and he got a weeks detention. Even before he was sorted into a house."
Harry burst out into a full, genuine laugh, picturing his father's stern composure ruined as an eleven-year-old boy. "He certainly doesn't seem like the type to try this."
"Who, Vernon?" Sirius smirked at Harry. "He was a menace Harry. Ask McGonagall or your mother. He was an equal menace to us in his first year alone."
His gaze settled on the small, peeling shop standing right in front of them. Faded gold letters over the rotting wooden doorway read: Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.
Sirius turned to Harry with sudden curiosity. "How come I haven't seen you use your wand, Harry?"
Harry shook his head casually. "I do not feel the need for one, Sirius. I perform all my magic wandlessly, and I have never tried using a wand. Honestly, those flamboyant gestures and frantic wood-waving look rather unnecessary. And as such never got one."
Sirius raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms over his charcoal coat. "Harry, you might not need a wand for basic casting, but it doesn't hurt to see what the experience feels like. Magic has a funny way of interacting with wands. Besides," he added with a sharp smirk, "what kind of wizard skips Ollivanders on his first trip?"
Harry offered a slight, reluctant nod. "Alright. But do not blame me if this turns out to be a complete waste of time."
Sirius grinned, pushing the creaking door open. "Oh, trust me, it won't be."
A tinkling brass bell rang somewhere in the depths of the shop as they stepped inside. The air was cool, quiet, and thick with the scent of old wood, resin, and deep magic. Narrow boxes were stacked neatly from floor to ceiling in every direction. A single spindly chair sat in the corner, which Sirius immediately claimed, lounging back comfortably while Harry surveyed the room.
Harry spread his magical awareness outward, scanning the ambient energy of the shop. Yet, surprisingly, he felt no other living presence. The shop felt entirely empty.
"Good afternoon," a soft voice spoke from the shadows.
Harry's eyes snapped toward the sound. An old man stood near the back counter, his wide, pale eyes gleaming like pale moons in the gloom. Harry's brows furrowed in subtle surprise; he had not sensed the man's physical approach at all.
"Hello," Harry replied, keeping his tone calm and composed.
"Ah, yes," the old man said, stepping forward with silent, gliding steps. "Yes, yes. I was almost afraid I would not be seeing you, Mr. Potter."
Harry tilted his head. "You know who I am?"
"Of course," Ollivander whispered, peering at him intently. "You have your mother's eyes. It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. A fine wand for charm work."
"That was over twenty years ago," Harry noted coolly. "You remember every single detail?"
"I remember every wand I have ever sold, Mr. Potter," Ollivander replied smoothly. "Your father, for instance... mahogany. Eleven inches. Pliable, excellent for Transfiguration. A natural match. Of course, it is not so much the wizard choosing the wand as it is the wand choosing the wizard."
Harry's emerald eyes narrowed slightly with intellectual interest. "You speak as though the wands possess a degree of sentience."
"Precisely," Ollivander said, his voice tinged with quiet pride. "A wand knows its master, sometimes long before the wizard understands himself."
"Fascinating," Harry admitted softly. The concept of an enchanted catalyst holding a distinct consciousness was intriguing, even if he found physical channeling tools redundant for his own magic.
Ollivander leaned forward, his pale eyes searching Harry's face. "Ah, I thought you might appreciate that, Mr. Potter. After all... your magic... well, it is extraordinary, even in its raw, unchanneled state."
Sirius sat forward in his chair, his playful mood instantly vanishing, replaced by protective alertness. "Extraordinary? What do you mean by that, Ollivander?"
Ollivander glanced over at Sirius with a knowing, gentle smile. "Ah, Sirius Black. Ebony, fifteen inches, pliant. Manticore heartstring core, if I recall."
Sirius blinked, slightly taken aback. "You remember that?"
"I remember everything, Mr. Black," Ollivander said simply. He turned his full attention back to Harry, his expression growing solemn. "As for your godson... I suspect he already knows what I perceive. His raw magical foundation is something I have never encountered in all my centuries of craft. Even Albus Dumbledore's presence pales in comparison."
Sirius nearly slipped out of his wooden chair. "Dumbledore? What on earth are you talking about?"
Harry merely raised a single eyebrow, his expression unbothered. "You possess remarkably keen vision, Mr. Ollivander."
"A wandmaker must have good eyes, Mr. Potter," Ollivander replied gently. Then, the old man took a slow step back, clasping his thin hands together as a heavy stillness settled over the room."
"Mr. Potter..." Ollivander began slowly, his pale eyes unblinking in the gloom of the shop. "I must confess something I have never said to a single witch or wizard who has walked through my doors. There is no wand here for you."
Harry blinked, processing the statement with a quiet tilt of his head.
Sirius instantly sat up, leaning forward in his chair with a heavy frown. "No wand? Surely you can't mean that, Mr. Ollivander. You have thousands of boxes in this shop. Surely there is some rare wood, some obscure combination..."
Ollivander raised a thin hand, silencing Sirius without taking his eyes off Harry. "It is not a matter of inventory, Mr. Black. Nor is it a question of searching through boxes. It is the simple, undeniable truth that every wand in this room... every wand I have ever crafted... feels completely unworthy of serving Mr. Potter."
Harry raised a single eyebrow. "Unworthy?"
"Yes," Ollivander whispered gravely. "Wands are not inert tools, Mr. Potter. They are proud, discerning entities. Their sole purpose is to channel, focus, and enhance their master's magic. But with you... they sense that they could not enhance a thing. They fear they would act as a barrier, dulling and choking the sheer scope of what you are."
Sirius stared at the wandmaker, his jaw tight. "So no wand in this shop will choose him?"
"Not in this shop, not anywhere in Britain, and not from any wandmaker alive," Ollivander admitted quietly. "No human craftsman possesses the skill to construct a focus capable of handling your essence. It is as though magic itself refuses to allow an imperfect catalyst into your hands."
Sirius stared at the wandmaker, his jaw tight. "So no wand in this shop will choose him?"
"Not in this shop, not anywhere in Britain, and not from any wandmaker alive," Ollivander admitted quietly. "No human craftsman possesses the skill to construct a focus capable of handling your essence. It is as though magic itself refuses to allow an imperfect catalyst into your hands."
Harry frowned slightly. The logic made a strange sort of sense. His wandless casting already felt direct and unburdened, so forcing his magic through a standard piece of wood and core might very well act like a bottleneck.
"Well," Harry said coolly, turning toward the door. "That settles it. I did not particularly want one anyway."
"Wait," Ollivander called out suddenly, his voice sharp enough to halt them both.
Harry stopped, looking back over his shoulder. Sirius paused beside him, confused. "Is there something else, Ollivander?"
The old wandmaker didn't answer right away. He stood completely frozen behind the counter, his pale eyes staring into the empty air between them. He closed his eyes, his chest rising and falling as if listening to something invisible in the room.
"Do not leave just yet," Ollivander murmured, his voice laced with a sudden, tense wonder. "Something... something is happening. The ambient magic in this room... it is shifting. Gathering."
"Gathering where?" Sirius asked, looking around the dusty shop, his hand dropping casually toward his pocket.
"I... I do not know," Ollivander confessed honestly, a faint tremor in his hands. "In my nearly two centuries of wandmaking, I have never felt the air pull together like this. Stay still. Please."
Before Harry could ask what he was sensing, a soft, localized ripple tore through the quiet air of the shop. Space folded slightly, humming with a deep, ancient authority that made the wooden floorboards vibrate.
Right before their eyes, a long, elegant wand materialized out of thin air, hovering suspended in the dim light. Beside it, floating in tandem, was a tightly rolled, ancient parchment scroll. The wand radiated an ethereal, comforting warmth that washed over all three of them like a quiet wave.
Ollivander let out a sharp, breathless gasp. He cautiously extended a trembling hand toward the hovering piece of wood to present it. But the moment his fingers came within inches of its surface, the wand veered away sharply. A silent, absolute rejection of any hand but one.
It glided smoothly across the counter, hovering directly in front of Harry.
Harry looked at the floating length of dark, intricately textured wood. Instinctively, he reached out his right hand, and the wand settled into his palm with absolute purpose.
The second his fingers closed around it, a massive, silent wave of magic surged through Harry's body. The wand felt alive, vibrant, and fiercely loyal, sending a quiet hum of absolute joy straight into his mind. It was an extension of himself, reading his very thoughts without the need for physical gestures or spoken incantations.
The silent pulse of power expanded outward, rippling past the shop, through Diagon Alley, across Britain, and spreading across the entire globe in an invisible ring. Millions of people felt a fleeting, inexplicable warmth settle in their chests before vanishing.
Ollivander's eyes shifted to the parchment scroll, which still floated untouched in the air. Taking a shuddering breath, the old man delicately plucked the parchment from the air and unrolled it.
As his sharp eyes scanned the glowing script, the wandmaker's face drained of all color. His legs nearly gave out, forcing him to grip the edge of the counter to steady himself.
"Sweet Merlin..." Sirius breathed, watching the old man's reaction. "Ollivander, what does it say?"
Ollivander swallowed hard, looking up at Harry with a mixture of reverence and outright shock. "Congratulations, Mr. Potter... You have been chosen by Elythral."
Harry looked down at the wand resting comfortably in his hand. "Elythral?"
"That is its name," Ollivander whispered, his voice trembling as he read the scroll. "It seems... it seems nature itself took up the task that no mortal craftsman could accomplish. Your wand was formed from Yggdrasil heartwood, the legendary source of life itself. And its core... it intertwines phoenix feather, thestral hair, and basilisk horn."
Sirius let out a choked sound. "Three supreme cores? In one wand?"
"It is an impossibility," Ollivander said, staring at the text in disbelief. "It is bound with runic arrays. It is fully sentient, Mr. Potter. It will draw from your magic seamlessly, responding purely to your thoughts. And... according to this scroll... it possesses localized temporal control. It can manipulate the flow of time in a small area."
Harry stared at the wand, feeling its quiet, intelligent pulse against his palm. He had walked in expecting a simple piece of wood to keep up appearances, and instead, the universe had handed him something completely unprecedented.
"As for its remaining gifts," Ollivander added, his voice dropping as he looked up from the parchment, "I have no idea. The scroll speaks of abilities that are simply beyond my comprehension. You will have to discover them yourself, Mr. Potter."
Sirius immediately reached into his coat to pull out a bank draft, but Ollivander shook his head weakly. "Do not bother, Mr. Black. I cannot accept gold for something that was not forged by human hands."
As Harry stowed the wand into his inner jacket. Feeling it settle comfortably against his side, he and Sirius turned toward the door.
"Mr. Potter," Ollivander called out softly.
Harry looked back. "Yes, Mr. Ollivander?"
"When you begin to understand what Elythral is capable of..." the old man requested, his misty eyes steady and earnest, "I ask that you write to me. I doubt I will ever see a miracle like this again in my lifetime, but to understand it... would be the greatest privilege of my craft."
Harry offered a polite, solemn nod. "I will let you know what I discover, Mr. Ollivander."