Professor McGonagall arrived precisely at ten, her severe posture softened only slightly by the Grangers' palpable anxiety. She ushered them through the Leaky Cauldron's grimy entrance with brisk efficiency. A tap of her wand, and the brick wall shuddered open onto Diagon Alley's cacophony. Leon inhaled sharply—the scent of roasting dragon liver, ozone from wand shops, the sheer *strangeness* of it all. Hermione vibrated beside him, clutching her parents' hands, eyes wide as saucers. McGonagall guided them past chattering witches and towering stacks of cauldrons, straight toward the imposing marble columns of Gringotts. "Your first stop," she declared, her voice cutting through the din. "Wealth secured is wisdom preserved." Leon's **[SYSTEM]** screen pulsed crimson: **[NEW MISSION: THE THICKNESS OF BLOOD - INITIATE BLOODLINE TEST AT GRINGOTTS. REWARD: INHERITANCE ACCESS & BLOODLINE REVELATION]**. His pulse quickened. Inheritance? Bloodline? What twisted legacy awaited him here?
Inside Gringotts' echoing hall, a stern-faced goblin named Griphook led them deep into the vault-lined bowels. After to the suprise of McGonagall he requested a inheritance test. They stopped before an ancient stone plinth etched with glowing runes. "Place a drop of blood upon the Seal," Griphook rasped, offering Leon a silver ritual dagger. McGonagall watched, sharp eyes narrowed. Hermione leaned forward, breath held. Leon pricked his finger. A single crimson bead fell onto the stone. Instantly, the runes flared blinding gold. Ghostly symbols materialized above the plinth—a complex family tree unfurling like spectral parchment. At its apex, one name burned brighter than all others, etched in sapphire flame: **ROWENA RAVENCLAW**. Gasps echoed in the cavernous chamber. McGonagall staggered back a step, her stern facade cracking into utter disbelief. "Merlin's beard," she breathed. "The sole heir… lost for centuries." Griphook's eyes gleamed with predatory interest. Leon stared at the shimmering name, a chill spreading through him. Ravenclaw. Not just magic—legacy. Burden.
The **[MISSION]** notification flashed gold: **[COMPLETE - REWARD: ACCESS TO RAVENCLAW VAULT (TIER 7 SECURITY)].** Below it, a secondary prompt pulsed: **[BLOODLINE TRAIT UNLOCKED: EIDETIC RECOLLECTION - MEMORY RETENTION ENHANCED].** Leon's mind suddenly felt sharper, clearer—every detail of the alley, McGonagall's shocked expression, the rune patterns, snapping into crystalline focus. But the revelation hung heavy. McGonagall recovered first, her voice tight with suppressed awe. "This… changes things, Mr. Frease. Significantly." Hermione's gaze locked onto Leon, not with envy, but fierce, burning curiosity. Who was he *really*? The heir of Ravenclaw stood amidst the echoing stone, the weight of centuries pressing down, the **[HAREM]** tab pulsing softly beside Hermione's name. Sanctuary felt further away than ever. Diagon Alley's wonders now seemed like a glittering trap.
Griphook led them to Vault 713, deeper than the dragon-guarded hoards, accessible only by a blood-sealed obsidian door. Inside lay not mountains of gold, but a stark, orderly chamber: neat stacks of gleaming Galleons, shelves of meticulously labeled scrolls, and a single obsidian pedestal holding a heavy platinum signet ring. Its face bore the Ravenclaw eagle, wings outstretched, clutching a single, flawless sapphire. Leon slipped it onto his finger. It hummed faintly, a cold resonance against his skin. **\[ITEM ACQUIRED: RAVENCLAW SIGNET RING - BLOODLINE AFFINITY CONFIRMED. STATUS: ACTIVE\].** McGonagall watched the ring settle, her expression unreadable. "Your responsibilities begin now, Heir Ravenclaw," she murmured. Hermione touched his arm, a silent question in her eyes. Leon pocketed a heavy pouch of Galleons, the coins clinking softly—wealth earned by blood he hadn't known he carried. The ring felt less like a prize, more like a shackle.
The oppressive grandeur of Gringotts gave way to the bustling chaos of Diagon Alley. McGonagall steered them purposefully towards a narrow, dusty shop crammed between Flourish and Blotts and a noisy apothecary. Peeling gold letters above the door proclaimed: *Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.* The air crackled with latent magic. As Leon pushed the creaking door open, a small silver bell chimed. Dust motes danced in shafts of afternoon sunlight. Shelves groaned under thousands of long, narrow boxes. Before he could take another step, his gaze snagged on the display window. There, resting on a worn cushion of deep imperial purple velvet, lay a single wand. Its wood was a deep, heartwood red, almost black, veined with streaks of iridescent gold. It seemed to *drink* the light, ancient and impossibly still.
The moment Leon's foot crossed the threshold, the wand on the purple cushion *twitched*. Not a vibration, but a sharp, deliberate jerk, like a sleeper startled awake. Then, slowly, impossibly, it pivoted on its velvet bed until its tip pointed unerringly at Leon's heart. A low hum, felt more than heard, filled the cramped shop, making the dust shiver on the shelves. From the shadows at the back, a pair of wide, moon-pale eyes appeared, fixing on Leon with unnerving intensity. Garrick Ollivander emerged, his silvery hair wild, his gaze darting between Leon and the window display. "Curious," he breathed, his voice like dry parchment. "Most curious indeed." He drifted closer, his long fingers hovering near the purple cushion but not touching the wand. "That wand... has not stirred since the day I laid it upon that cushion, decades ago. Crafted by my ancestor, Cadmus Ollivander himself, from wood harvested from the very last Phoenix Ash tree... and core... ah, the core..." His eyes gleamed with a fanatical light. "The heartstring of Scylla, the last True Dragon, slain by Cadmus' own hand. A wand of endings. Of absolute finality." Ollivander's pale eyes locked onto Leon's. "And it has chosen *you*, Heir Ravenclaw."
Leon felt a magnetic pull, fierce and undeniable, emanating from the dark wand. The Ravenclaw signet ring on his finger pulsed with a sudden, icy coldness, a counterpoint to the wand's fiery summons. Ollivander gently lifted the wand from its purple velvet throne. As his fingers brushed the ancient wood, a shower of crimson and gold sparks erupted, cascading to the floorboards like liquid fire. He offered it to Leon, handle first. "The wand chooses the wizard, young master Ravenclaw. Always. But this wand... it does not merely choose. It *demands*." Leon reached out, his fingers trembling slightly. The moment his skin touched the cool, strangely resonant wood, the shop vanished. He stood on a windswept cliff under a bleeding sky, watching a colossal dragon with scales like molten gold roar defiance as a lone wizard raised a wand – *this wand* – for the killing blow. The dragon's final, agonized bellow echoed in his bones, a scream of extinction. Simultaneously, he felt the phantom heat of a forest consumed by unnatural fire – the last Phoenix Ash grove burning. Power, vast and terrible, surged up his arm – not just magic, but the raw, grieving fury of endings made permanent.
Leon gasped, staggering back as the vision shattered. The wand in his hand felt alive, vibrating with contained storm-force. Crimson and gold flames licked along its length before subsiding into a deep, sullen glow within the wood grain. Ollivander watched, utterly still, his expression unreadable. "Thirteen Galleons," he stated softly, the price a sacred ritual. Leon paid numbly, the heavy coins clinking in the silence. The wand thrummed against his palm, a predator finally unleashed. McGonagall's lips were pressed into a thin line. Hermione stared, wide-eyed, clutching her own vine wood wand protectively. Leon slipped the ancient wand into his robes. Its weight was immense. Not just a tool, but a tombstone. And it had chosen him. The path ahead, lit by twin moons and dragonfire, felt darker, heavier, and infinitely more perilous.
McGonagall remained unnervingly silent as they exited Ollivander's, the dusty shop bell chiming like a funeral knell. Only when they reached the relative privacy of a quieter alleyway flanked by barrels of pickled Griffon eggs did she halt. Her sharp gaze fixed on Leon, piercing through the lingering haze of dragonfire visions. "That wood," she began, her voice low and precise, cutting through Diagon Alley's distant clamor. "Phoenix Ash. It was thought extinct for centuries." She paused, her eyes narrowing slightly. "Rowena Ravenclaw herself planted the last recorded sapling in the heart of the Forbidden Forest. She nurtured it with starlight and riddles, believing its magic essential to preserving wisdom against oblivion." Leon felt the Ravenclaw signet ring pulse coldly on his finger, a silent confirmation. McGonagall's stern facade cracked, revealing a flicker of profound unease. "Its destruction... coincided with her disappearance."
The implication hung in the air, thick and suffocating. Leon's hand instinctively clenched around the wand concealed in his robes. Its resonance felt deeper now, mournful, echoing the loss McGonagall described. The Headmistress's words weren't mere history; they were a blade twisting into the heart of his supposed rebirth. Lillian's grinning face flashed in his mind – the spinning wheel, the 'random' system, the shove into the light. Had it been chance? Or had the Death Goddess been a pawn herself, maneuvering him towards this specific wood, this specific legacy? The **[HAREM KEEPER SYSTEM]** screen flickered crimson in his vision, suddenly seeming less like a gift and more like a meticulously crafted cage door slamming shut. Randomness felt like a fragile lie under the weight of Rowena's vanished tree and Ollivander's ancestral craft.
Leon met McGonagall's piercing stare, the cold ring biting into his flesh. "So," he rasped, the weight of centuries pressing down, "you're saying this wand... my blood... it's not coincidence." The Headmistress inclined her head, a gesture heavy with unspoken dread. "Coincidence is a luxury Hogwarts rarely affords, Mr. Frease-Ravenclaw. Especially where founders are concerned." Hermione watched them, her earlier wonder replaced by dawning horror. Leon's knuckles whitened around the wand. Sanctuary wasn't just a cave. It was an illusion shattered by ancient magic and a dead woman's vanished tree. The path forward wasn't random. It was a labyrinth designed centuries ago, and he stood at its center, holding a wand forged from endings, heir to a legacy steeped in mystery and blood.