[FOR EVERY 100 POWERSTONES = 1 EXTRA CHAPTER]
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The next morning dawned bright and clear, the air crisp with the promise of adventure. Merlin led his small entourage—John, Sharon, Godric, Helga, Rowena, and Salazar—away from the secluded castle. Their destination was not reached by a quaint, hidden pub, but by a shimmering, ancient portal stone hidden within a grove of oak trees. With a wave of Merlin's staff and a muttered incantation, the space within the stone archway rippled like water, and they stepped through.
The transition was instantaneous. The quiet of the forest was replaced by a vibrant, overwhelming cacophony of sound and color. They stood at the entrance of a bustling magical village, but this was not the cobbled, Victorian-esque Diagon Alley of a far future. This was a raw, thriving medieval market town, pulsating with untamed magic.
Thestrals, their skeletal forms stark against the bright sky, pulled heavy-laden wagons through the crowded streets. Witches and wizards in robes of every hue and quality bartered loudly at open-air stalls overflowing with enchanted goods—caged Jobberknolls that stole memories, shimmering cloth that changed color with the wearer's mood, and cauldrons that stirred themselves. The architecture was a chaotic, magnificent blend of timber-framed houses leaning precariously over the streets and grander stone structures adorned with moving, magical gargoyles. It was alive, chaotic, and utterly magnificent.
A young man, perhaps in his early twenties with an earnest face and practical robes, spotted Merlin and hurried over, bowing deeply. "Lord Merlin! Welcome! It is an honor to have you in our humble village."
"Thermos," Merlin greeted him warmly. "The honor is mine. Your father's work on the new ward stones was exemplary. We are here for wands and potion ingredients."
After a brief, pleasant chat, Thermos scurried off, and the group delved deeper into the thrumming heart of the village. John and Sharon walked with wide eyes, taking it all in. John's mind, however, was working analytically. This is the peak, he thought. This energy, this progress… but Merlin won't be here forever. Without his guiding hand, what happens? The pure-blood ideology Salazar will inadvertently inspire… it could stagnate everything. Rivalry breeds competition, and competition drives progress. If wizards start believing their blood makes them superior, they'll stop trying to improve. They'll see muggle ingenuity as a threat, not a challenge to overcome. Power without the wisdom to wield it… it's a lesson I'm learning myself.
He watched Salazar, who was examining a stall of rare, glowing fungi with intense interest. Salazar was brilliant, but his passion for purity could be twisted by lesser minds after he was gone. It was a sobering thought.
As they moved through the crowd, a path seemed to clear for Merlin. Witches and wizards bowed their heads, their conversations hushing momentarily in respect. Merlin, in turn, introduced John and Sharon as his "newest disciples," a title that earned them curious and appraising looks from the locals.
Finally, they arrived at their destination: a narrow, towering shop squeezed between a noisy apothecary and a shop selling animated wooden toys. A weathered, wooden sign hung over the door, carved with the words: Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.
Merlin pushed the door open, and a bell chimed softly, its sound somehow older than the shop itself. The interior was a cavern of organized chaos. Thousands of long, narrow boxes were stacked precisely from floor to ceiling, and the air was thick with the dust of centuries and the scent of various woods and magical essences.
At a workbench at the back, a young man with intense focus was hunched over a half-carved wand, a silver carving knife moving with hypnotic precision. He was so absorbed in his craft that he didn't notice their entrance.
Merlin gave an awkward, polite cough.
The young man, Samuel Ollivander, looked up, his eyes blinking as if returning from a great distance. When he saw Merlin, he set his tools down carefully and came forward, offering a respectful bow. "Master Merlin. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"We require wands for my new disciples," Merlin said, gesturing to John and Sharon.
Samuel's sharp, silvery eyes turned to Sharon first. "My lady, what is your dominant hand?"
Sharon held out her left hand. Samuel produced a long, magical measuring tape that moved of its own accord, whizzing around her, taking measurements of her hand, the distance between her nostrils, the length of her spine, and even the circumference of her throat.
From the side, John watched the process, a completely irrational, possessive agitation bubbling within him. Why does he need to measure her throat? Is that strictly necessary?
Rowena, noticing his subtle scowl, leaned over and whispered, "The measurements are not just physical. The tape is imbued with a charm that reads magical aura, affinity, and even personality traits. It gives the wandmaker a holistic picture of the witch or wizard. It is a sacred art, not an invasion."
John gave a curt nod, forcing his expression to remain neutral, though the slight tension in his jaw remained.
Satisfied, Samuel vanished into the towering stacks of boxes. They could hear him muttering to himself. "Holly… yes, protective, ideal for those seeking to overcome anger… and a core that resonates with life…" He returned moments later carrying a long, slender box made of polished olive wood. He opened it with reverence.
Inside, nestled on a bed of faded purple velvet, lay a wand of breathtaking beauty. It was pale, almost white holly wood, inlaid with delicate golden filigree that spiraled up its length. It gave off a faint, pleasant scent of sandalwood and fresh rain.
"Holly wood, twelve and a half inches, surprisingly swishy," Samuel announced, his voice filled with pride. "The core is a single hair from a Forest Spirit, a guardian of the Elven kingdoms. My great-great-grandfather nearly lost his life procuring it. It is a wand of immense power, particularly drawn to healing magic and those with a pure, protective heart."
As Sharon's fingers closed around the wand, a wave of golden energy erupted from her, warm and invigorating. It washed over everyone in the shop. To their astonishment, the dusty, dead wooden floorboards beneath their feet began to sprout, tiny, vibrant green saplings pushing up between the planks.
Samuel beamed. "Excellent! A perfect match! This wand is fiercely loyal. It will serve you with all its power, and should it ever be broken, the wood itself will seek to regenerate as long as the core remains intact."
Sharon's face was a picture of pure, unadulterated joy. She could feel a warm, humming connection to the wand, as if it were an extension of her own arm, a new sense she never knew she was missing.
It was then that Merlin spoke, his voice gentle but firm, cutting through her euphoria. "Sharon."
She looked up, her expression still radiant.
"Look at your face," Merlin said. "You feel the link. It is a beautiful thing. But remember this moment. Never become solely dependent on the wand. A wand is a tool, a magnificent and loyal one, but a tool nonetheless. It has its own emotions and will, yes. But if you become addicted to it, you will forget the power that resides within you. You will never strive to master wandless magic again, and that would be a tragedy, for the magic you hold is older and wilder than any piece of wood."
Sharon's smile didn't fade, but it became more thoughtful, more determined. She nodded, understanding the warning. She would love and respect her wand, but she would not be enslaved by it. The wand was a key, but she was the door.
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