The goblin employee escorted Lucien and Professor McGonagall out with a flourish.
His attitude toward Lucien was practically dripping with enthusiasm and charm.
No wonder—Lucien's exchange of gold for Galleons had single-handedly met the goblin's yearly work quota.
The goblin's smile was as bright as a blooming chrysanthemum, wrinkles piling up in delight.
And this was just the first transaction. He was certain more big deals would follow.
Lucien gave a casual wave, taking the small bag the goblin handed him, which held just 300 Galleons.
The rest of the exchanged Galleons were safely stored in Gringotts' vaults.
Professor McGonagall led Lucien toward Ollivanders Wand Shop, marveling quietly to herself. She'd never seen a young witch or wizard exchange that many Galleons before.
"You seemed quite knowledgeable about currency exchange back there with the goblin. Are you familiar with financial matters?" she asked.
Lucien nodded.
"I know a bit, Professor. I believe knowledge, no matter the field, is always better in abundance."
"Well said, Lucien. You have a maturity beyond your years," McGonagall replied.
Known for her strict teaching style at Hogwarts, she couldn't help but admire a student who took knowledge seriously and loved learning.
Soon, a shabby little shop came into view.
Lucien looked up at the dusty, weathered sign above the door.
"Ollivanders"
"Makers of Fine Wands Since 382 BC"
Talk about ancient—over two thousand years old.
Stepping inside, Lucien felt a shower of dust drift down from the ceiling.
From the outside, the shop looked rundown. Inside?
Even more rundown.
Well, that must mean Ollivanders' wands were truly top-notch.
How else could they stay in business this long?
Surely the entire British wizarding world didn't rely on just one wandmaker, right?
Lucien reassured himself with that thought.
"Oh, Minerva, we meet again," a voice called out.
"Fir, nine and a half inches, dragon heartstring."
An old man with white, wispy hair and silvery eyes stepped out from behind the counter.
He greeted Professor McGonagall with a smile, rattling off the details of her wand with pinpoint accuracy.
Lucien glanced at the disheveled old man, noticing that he was sizing him up in return.
Garrick Ollivander was used to this scene—every year, Hogwarts professors brought new students to his shop to find their perfect wand.
"A young wizard in need of a wand. What's your name?" he asked.
"Lucien Grafton."
"Which is your dominant hand?"
"Right."
Ollivander pulled a tape measure from his pocket. It sprang to life, floating around Lucien and measuring his arm length on its own.
Once the tape measure zipped back to him, Ollivander glanced at the markings and strode toward a wall of shelves.
He gently pulled out a box, brushing off the dust.
"Chesnut, twelve inches, unicorn tail hair."
He handed the wand to Lucien.
As Lucien took it, he felt a spark of magic stir within him, like his power was waking up.
He guided that magic through the wand, letting it flow naturally.
A soft white glow radiated from the wand's tip, filling the room with a warm, comforting light.
But Lucien could tell something was off. The magic didn't flow smoothly—it felt blocked, like the wand couldn't fully handle his power.
A quick glance at his mental "panel" confirmed it: his magical talent was still locked, waiting to be unleashed.
Before Lucien could say anything, Ollivander had already noticed the issue.
He took the wand back, muttering to himself, "No matter, no matter. It's the wand that chooses the wizard. I'll find the right one for you!"
"Your magic is stronger than most your age. Let me see…"
He rummaged again and pulled out another wand.
"Ebony, fourteen inches, dragon heartstring."
"Sturdy, powerful. Give it a try."
Lucien took the wand and channeled his magic again.
Boom!
A burst of deep green flames shot out, roaring toward the ceiling.
But Lucien was ready. He quickly reined in his magic, and the green fire snake shrank back, coiling in midair before vanishing.
Ollivander didn't seem upset about his shop nearly catching fire. Instead, he was impressed.
"Remarkable control!" he exclaimed.
"But perhaps this wand is a bit too… impulsive for a young wizard like you."
The process repeated: Ollivander fetched wands, Lucien tested them, and they didn't quite fit. Over and over.
"Dogwood—too lively."
"Spruce—no, too rigid."
"Thunderbird feather—a bit too temperamental."
…
Ollivander made dozens of trips back and forth, yet none of the wands were quite right for Lucien.
But he never lost patience—in fact, he seemed to enjoy the challenge.
The harder it was to find a wand, the more unique the wizard. Those with such distinct traits often shone brightly in one or more fields, and Ollivander loved the thrill of finding the perfect match for them.
What's a genius if they're just like everyone else?
Handing the right wand to a young wizard, setting them on their first step into the magical world—that was what gave Ollivander such pride.
Professor McGonagall stood patiently nearby, curious to see which wand would finally choose Lucien.
Or rather, what kind of wand could match his talent.
As Ollivander rummaged through his shelves, something stirred in the deepest corner of the shop.
A dusty, battered cabinet in the back trembled. A cloud of ash billowed up as an old, yellowed box creaked open.
A shadow shot out, speeding straight toward Lucien.
McGonagall raised her wand, ready to cast a spell to intercept it.
But the object stopped, hovering steadily in front of Lucien's chest.
It was a wand, silver-black in color.
Though solid, it seemed to shimmer and shift, like it was constantly changing.
Ollivander, startled and nearly falling off his ladder, hurried over, ignoring the dust coating his robes.
He stared at the wand floating before Lucien.
After studying it for a good ten seconds, even Ollivander—whose memory for wands was legendary—looked uncertain.
He murmured, almost to himself, "Trickster Branch, twelve and a half inches, Sphinx feather."
Lucien examined the wand closely. Its surface flickered with faint, half-illusory symbols. Some merged into intricate patterns before sinking back into the wood.
Standing closest to it, Lucien swore he heard faint, intermittent… chuckling?
It carried a mocking, almost haughty tone.
A Sphinx—Lion-bodied, human-faced creature from Egyptian mythology. Loved riddling passersby.
Did such a magical creature exist in the Harry Potter world?
And what in Merlin's name was a Trickster Branch?
"Mr. Ollivander, what's a Trickster Branch?" Lucien asked.
Ollivander's answer made Lucien's jaw drop, both familiar and shocking.
"Loki Fir."