Chapter 3: Hornbeam, Dragon Heartstring, Fourteen Inches
"Creeeeeak."
The sound of old hinges scraping against metal made Ethan wince as he pushed open the door to the Leaky Cauldron.
He stepped inside, and immediately his cobalt blue eyes had to adjust to the change in lighting. After the bright sunshine of Charing Cross Road, the dim interior of the pub felt like walking into a cave. Dark wood, flickering candles, shadows pooling in the corners—the whole place had this perpetually gloomy atmosphere that probably violated about fifteen different health codes.
A few wizards scattered around the room glanced up at the sound of the door. Most of them looked like the kind of people who spent their afternoons drinking alone in sketchy bars because they had nowhere better to be—greasy robes, unkempt beards, that general air of having given up on life.
They looked Ethan up and down with mild, disinterested curiosity, then went back to their drinks.
Whatever. Not worth their attention.
But there was one witch—sitting alone at a corner table, built like a brick house with a chest that entered rooms before she did and lips painted an aggressive shade of red—who let out a low, appreciative whistle.
The sound was... honestly kind of lewd. Inappropriate in a way that made Ethan's skin crawl slightly.
He was eleven, for god's sake.
But instead of looking uncomfortable or scared like most kids probably would, Ethan just smiled at her. Bright and friendly, like she'd paid him a normal compliment instead of whatever that had been.
The witch blinked, clearly surprised by the reaction.
Then her eyes widened slightly as she actually looked at him properly.
Damn. That is one pretty kid.
Even at eleven, even dressed in clothes that were obviously secondhand and didn't fit quite right, there was something striking about him. That pale, almost translucent skin. The slightly curly black hair that fell messily around his face. Features that were already showing hints of the kind of bone structure that would make him genuinely handsome in a few years.
And those eyes. Jesus, those eyes. That unusual cobalt blue, bright and clear, like they were lit from within.
Yeah, this kid was going to break some hearts when he got older.
"Knock knock."
Ethan had to stand on his tiptoes to reach the bar properly—one of the many indignities of being stuck in an eleven-year-old body—and rapped his knuckles politely against the scarred wooden surface.
Behind the bar, a hunched figure was methodically wiping down glasses with a rag that had probably been white once upon a time but was now a dubious gray.
"Excuse me," Ethan said, making his voice as polite and respectful as possible. "Hello, sir. I'm a new student heading to Hogwarts, and I don't have a wand yet, so I was hoping you could help me with the brick wall thing? To get into Diagon Alley?"
At the sound of his voice, the bartender—Tom, owner of the Leaky Cauldron—lifted his head and looked down at the kid addressing him.
Skinny little thing. Cheap clothes that hung loose on his frame. Pale skin like he didn't get outside much. Black hair that needed a trim. Regular features, nothing too remarkable at first glance.
Though yeah, even Tom could tell the kid would grow up to be a looker. Probably have girls crying over him in a few years, the lucky bastard.
But it was the eyes that really stood out. On that pale, somewhat gaunt face, those bright cobalt blue eyes practically glowed. They reminded Tom of the night sky—deep and serene, scattered with stars, impossibly vast.
And there was something else in those eyes, too. Something that didn't quite match the young face they were set in.
A kind of... maturity, maybe? Awareness?
Like this kid had seen more than an eleven-year-old should have.
Tom's gaze lingered for a moment longer, taking in the fact that Ethan was alone. No parents, no older siblings, no professors or guides.
That was unusual for a Muggle-born or a kid from a non-magical family. Usually there was someone helping them navigate their first trip to Diagon Alley.
But Tom didn't comment on it. Not his business, really.
"Come with me," he said simply, setting down the glass he'd been polishing and jerking his head toward the back of the pub.
He shuffled out from behind the bar and headed for the rear exit without checking to see if Ethan was following.
Well, that was pretty lukewarm, Ethan thought to himself, trailing behind the bartender.
Not exactly the warm welcome Harry Potter had gotten in the books. But then again, Ethan wasn't the Boy Who Lived, the kid who'd somehow survived the Killing Curse and defeated the Dark Lord as a baby. He was just... some random kid from Spider's End.
Made sense that he'd get the standard treatment instead of the celebrity red carpet.
Ethan didn't mind, though. He was too busy looking around the pub with open fascination, trying to take in every detail.
The interior was... well, "rustic" was probably the charitable way to describe it. "Rundown" was more accurate.
The furniture was old and battered, the kind of tables and chairs that had seen decades of use and abuse. The floorboards creaked ominously with every step. Everything had this pervasive smell of old beer and wood smoke and something vaguely musty.
On the walls hung a few paintings—still lifes mostly, bowls of fruit and that kind of thing—but they were covered in layers of dust and cobwebs. The frames were so grimy they practically blended into the stained wallpaper behind them.
Honestly, the paintings didn't look particularly good even setting aside the dirt. They were the kind of generic, uninspired art that you'd find at a yard sale for five bucks.
"You know," Ethan said conversationally as they walked, "different decorations can really change the whole vibe of a space, Mr. Tom. Those paintings look pretty old. Maybe some new ones would brighten things up a bit?"
Tom made a dismissive sound and waved his hand without turning around. "These are all regulars here anyway. Place is quieter when there's not a crowd. And paintings? What difference do a few pictures make?"
Ethan didn't respond to that, but he filed the information away carefully in his mind.
The Leaky Cauldron. Direct gateway to Diagon Alley. Probably hundreds—maybe thousands—of witches and wizards passing through every week. Tourists, students, shoppers, all of them.
If he wanted to make a name for himself as an artist in the wizarding world, getting his work displayed here would be absolutely perfect. Maximum visibility, perfect location.
But.
He'd need to create something worthy of being hung up. Something that could actually be called a work of art, not just a sketch or a quick portrait.
The stuff he'd been doing in Spider's End—the magically-enhanced drawings that had gotten him in trouble—those were good, sure. But they weren't exceptional. They weren't the kind of thing that would make people stop in their tracks and stare.
He needed to level up. Needed to create something truly impressive.
Something to work toward, Ethan thought, his mind already spinning with ideas and possibilities.
Lost in thought, he almost didn't notice when they stepped through the back door of the pub and into a small, enclosed courtyard.
It was... underwhelming, honestly. Just a tiny square of cracked pavement surrounded by high brick walls. A dented metal trash can sat in one corner, looking exactly as dingy and depressing as you'd expect.
"Count three bricks up," Tom said, pulling out his wand—a worn, plain-looking thing that had definitely seen better days. "Then two bricks across from the left. Tap it three times with your wand, and the entrance opens."
He demonstrated, his wand making soft tap-tap-tap sounds against the brick.
For a second, nothing happened.
Then—
Click. Click-click-click-click.
The brick he'd tapped began to move. And not just that one brick—all of them started moving, folding outward and away like some kind of impossible origami, like the laws of physics had suddenly taken a coffee break.
The bricks twisted and rotated and slid past each other, and the hole in the center grew wider and wider until it formed a massive archway, easily big enough for several people to walk through side by side.
And beyond that archway—
Holy shit.
The noise hit Ethan first. A wall of sound—people talking and laughing and arguing, children shrieking with excitement, vendors calling out their wares, the general cacophony of a busy marketplace.
Then came the visual assault.
Shops. Dozens of them, hundreds maybe, lining both sides of a winding cobblestone street. Buildings that looked like they'd been designed by someone who'd never heard of "structural integrity" or "architectural codes"—they leaned at impossible angles, seemed to stack on top of each other in ways that shouldn't work, jutted out in random directions like they'd been built by a committee of people who all had different ideas and refused to compromise.
Colorful awnings and parasols shaded the street, fluttering in the breeze, creating this dappled pattern of light and shadow that made the whole scene look almost dreamlike. Like walking into a painting, or a storybook illustration come to life.
People everywhere. Witches and wizards in robes of every color imaginable—emerald green, deep purple, sunny yellow, midnight black. Some wore pointed hats, some wore regular clothes mixed with magical accessories, some had outfits that looked like they'd raided a Renaissance fair and a costume shop simultaneously.
Conversations drifted over from the crowd:
"—someone actually broke into Gringotts! Can you believe it? Who would be stupid enough to—"
"—no, sweetie, you're way too young for Madam Primpernelle's beauty potions—"
"—TWO GALLEONS for lacewing flies?! That's highway robbery! They've lost their minds—"
Kids darted between adults' legs, laughing and pointing at shop windows. An owl swooped overhead, a letter clutched in its talons. Something that looked suspiciously like a small dragon was being carried in a cage by a harried-looking wizard.
This was Diagon Alley. The hidden magical shopping district in the heart of London.
And it was amazing.
Ethan stood there frozen in the archway, his mouth hanging open slightly, his eyes wide and trying to take in everything at once. He felt like he needed about eight more pairs of eyes just to catch all the details.
"Heh heh."
Tom's gravelly chuckle broke through Ethan's daze. The old bartender was grinning at him with obvious amusement—apparently watching kids react to their first glimpse of Diagon Alley never got old.
"Enjoy your new life, kid," Tom said, sounding genuinely friendly for the first time since they'd met.
Ethan blinked and shook his head, trying to clear the stars from his vision. "Right. Yes. Thank you so much for your help, Mr. Tom. I really appreciate it."
"Ah, don't mention it." Tom waved him off, though he looked pleased by the thanks. Everyone liked polite kids, even grumpy old bartenders. "My daughter—Hannah Abbott, her name is—she's starting at Hogwarts this year too. First year, same as you. You might run into her there. Anyway, good luck."
With that, Tom turned and headed back into the pub, leaving Ethan standing at the threshold of the magical world.
Ethan took a deep breath.
Then, with his heart pounding with excitement and anticipation, he stepped through the archway and onto the cobblestone street of Diagon Alley.
The magical world, in all its chaotic glory, swallowed him up.
Ethan didn't have a Gringotts vault—hell, he'd barely had enough money for food back in Spider's End—so there was no need to visit the wizarding bank. That would have to wait for another day, assuming he ever accumulated enough money to actually need a vault.
No, his first stop was obvious. The place he'd been dreaming about since he first realized he had magic.
Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 BC.
The shop was easy to find—right there on the main street, its narrow storefront wedged between a shop selling cauldrons and another offering flying broomsticks. The gold letters on the sign were faded but still elegant, and the whole building had this air of age and importance that made Ethan's pulse quicken.
I'm about to get my wand.
My actual, real, magical wand.
He reached for the door handle—gray glass, slightly dusty—and pulled it open.
"Ring-ring-ring."
A small bell somewhere in the depths of the shop announced his arrival with a cheerful jingle.
Ethan stepped inside and immediately felt like he'd entered a completely different world from the noisy, chaotic street outside.
It was quiet here. Not just physically quiet—though it was that too, the sounds of Diagon Alley muffled and distant—but quiet in a deeper sense. Peaceful. Almost sacred.
The shop was long and narrow, stretching back much farther than should have been possible given the size of the building from outside. Rows upon rows of shelves lined both walls, stacked floor to ceiling with thousands of long, narrow boxes. Each one presumably containing a wand, waiting for its wizard.
The air smelled like old wood and parchment and something else, something indefinable. Magic, maybe. History.
Even the dust motes floating in the thin shafts of sunlight that penetrated the shop's gloom seemed to move with deliberate slowness, like they were taking their time.
Ethan looked around with undisguised interest, feeling a sense of calm settle over him despite his excitement. There was something almost meditative about this place.
Then—
"Scraaaaaape."
The sound of wheels rolling across the wooden floor came from deep within the shop, back in the shadows where Ethan couldn't quite see.
A figure emerged, standing on one of those rolling ladders that libraries used for reaching high shelves. An old man with wispy white hair that stuck out at odd angles, dressed in robes that had probably been fashionable seventy years ago.
His eyes—pale gray, almost silver, huge and unsettling like a full moon—fixed on Ethan with unnerving intensity.
"Oh—"
The old man—Ollivander, obviously—just stared at Ethan without saying anything else.
"Oh" what? Oh hello? Oh you're here? Oh what an interesting specimen?
Ethan waited, smiling politely.
Ollivander continued staring.
The silence stretched out, growing increasingly awkward.
Say something, Ethan thought, fighting the urge to laugh. Literally anything.
But Ollivander seemed stuck, his mouth slightly open like he'd started to say something and then completely forgotten what it was.
And Ethan suddenly realized why.
In the books, whenever someone came into Ollivander's shop, the old wandmaker would immediately start rattling off information about their parents or grandparents or great-uncles—what wands they'd bought, what core and wood, how long ago, demonstrating his supposedly incredible memory.
It was his thing. His party trick. The way he established himself as this mysterious, all-knowing figure.
But Ethan? Ethan had no magical ancestry. No parents or grandparents who'd bought wands here. He was a random kid from Spider's End, first magical person in his family line, with no wizarding connections whatsoever.
And apparently, he'd come here alone, without even a Hogwarts professor or a Ministry volunteer to guide him, which was also unusual.
Ollivander literally had nothing to work with. No way to show off his memory, no impressive family history to recite.
It was like showing up to a magic show and accidentally breaking the magician's favorite prop before he could perform.
The awkward silence continued.
Ethan could see Ollivander's mind working, trying to figure out what to say, how to proceed without his usual opening routine.
And then—just for a split second—something seemed to flicker across the old man's face. A memory, maybe. A distant association.
The image of another dark-haired boy who'd once walked into this shop alone, with no family to speak of. Another child with unusual circumstances who'd been matched with an unusual wand.
Yew and phoenix feather. Thirteen and a half inches.
The wand that had gone to Tom Riddle.
Ollivander's expression shifted almost imperceptibly, and Ethan wondered if he was imagining the brief flash of something that might have been concern, or wariness, or just curiosity.
"Ahem!"
Ollivander cleared his throat loudly, breaking the awkward spell, and descended from his ladder with surprising agility for someone who looked about a thousand years old.
"Welcome, welcome to Ollivanders Wand Shop!" he proclaimed, his voice suddenly professional and warm, like he'd flipped a switch. "A new young wizard, I see! How wonderful! Let me help you find the most suitable wand—though of course, as we say, the wand chooses the wizard, not the other way around."
He clasped his hands together and fixed Ethan with those unsettling moon-like eyes. "Now then. Which is your dominant hand?"
"Right hand," Ethan answered, successfully fighting back the smile that wanted to break across his face.
This whole interaction had been ridiculous, and he'd loved every second of it.
The hand that draws, he thought. The hand that creates.
Before he could dwell on it further, a tape measure flew out of nowhere—literally levitating in midair, moving on its own like an enthusiastic snake—and began taking measurements.
It wrapped around his arm (elbow to fingertip: thirteen inches), stretched from shoulder to shoulder (sixteen inches), measured his height (four feet, nine inches, disappointingly short), even tried to measure from his nose to his ear before Ethan batted it away in confusion.
While the tape measure went about its bizarre business, Mr. Ollivander had already disappeared into the maze of shelves, muttering to himself as he examined different boxes.
"Calluses on the right hand," he murmured, pulling down a box and examining it critically. "Interesting, interesting. Not from wand work, obviously. From holding tools, perhaps? Pens? Let me see..."
He emerged from the shelves holding a long, narrow box, which he opened with a flourish.
"Try this," he said, presenting the wand like it was a sacred artifact. "Elm wood, thirteen and a half inches, unicorn hair core. Excellent for producing magnificent and powerful magic."
The wand was straight and smooth, pale wood that gleamed slightly in the shop's dim light.
Ethan took it carefully, feeling the weight of it in his palm. It felt... fine. Not bad, not uncomfortable, just... fine.
He gave it an experimental wave, the way he'd seen in movies.
"BANG!"
A vase on a nearby shelf exploded into fragments, shards of ceramic flying everywhere.
"Oh! Oh no, no, no, definitely not that one!" Ollivander snatched the wand back from Ethan's hand like it was a live grenade. "Wrong, all wrong. Let me think..."
He scurried back into the shelves, leaving Ethan standing there feeling slightly guilty about the vase.
"Perhaps cedar wood," Ollivander called out from somewhere in the depths of the shop. "Cedar wood pairs well with resilient wizards, those with sharp minds and strong character. Yes, let's try..."
He emerged with another box, another wand.
This one didn't explode anything, which was progress. But when Ethan waved it, absolutely nothing happened. No sparks, no light, no sense of connection. Just... nothing.
"No, no, that won't do either."
Back into the shelves Ollivander went.
This happened several more times. Different woods, different cores, different lengths. None of them felt right. Some produced small sparks, others did nothing, one made the windows rattle ominously.
Ethan was starting to worry that maybe he'd be one of those rare cases where finding a wand took hours, trying hundreds of combinations until something finally worked.
But then—
"Ah!"
Ollivander's exclamation came from deep in the shop, excited and triumphant.
Ethan heard rapid footsteps, and then the old wandmaker practically ran back to the front, clutching a box like he'd just discovered buried treasure.
His eyes were bright with excitement, and he was smiling in a way that looked genuinely delighted.
"Yes, yes! I should have thought of this immediately when I saw those calluses on your hand!" He opened the box with careful reverence. "Hornbeam wood, dragon heartstring core, fourteen inches long."
He lifted the wand from its velvet cushion and held it out.
The wand itself was beautiful in an understated way. Light brown wood—not pale like birch, not dark like walnut, but somewhere in between. The grain showed subtle horizontal ridges that caught the light, giving it texture and character.
Ethan reached out slowly, almost hesitantly.
The moment his fingers made contact with the wood, everything changed.
It was like completing an electrical circuit. Warm energy flooded into his palm, traveling up his arm, spreading through his entire body. It wasn't uncomfortable—it was perfect, actually, like finding a missing piece you hadn't even realized was gone.
The magic inside him—that strange, wild power that he'd barely been able to control, that had been making his paintings do weird things without his conscious intent—suddenly resonated with the wand.
Like two tuning forks vibrating at the same frequency. Like harmony in music.
This is it, Ethan thought, and he knew it with absolute certainty. This is my wand.
Following pure instinct, following the surge of joy and rightness flowing through him, Ethan raised the wand and swept it through the air in a broad, graceful arc.
"Whoooosh—"
Color exploded from the wand's tip.
Rich, deep, gorgeous blue—like the sky at twilight, like the depths of the ocean—spread out above them in a shimmering wave. And within that blue canvas, points of silver light began to appear.
Stars. Dozens of them, hundreds, swirling slowly in elegant patterns. The moon rose in miniature, cycling through its phases in seconds. Constellations formed and reformed, nebulae swirled in distant corners, comets traced fiery paths across the magical sky.
It was breathtaking. A work of art rendered in pure magic, hanging in the air above them like a ceiling made of dreams.
Ollivander's face had gone soft with appreciation, his strange moon-eyes reflecting the magical starscape. The corners of his mouth curved up in a genuine smile, the kind that crinkled his whole face.
"Hornbeam," he said quietly, reverently, like he was sharing a secret, "is particularly drawn to wizards who possess a single, pure passion. An intense, devoted love for something."
His gaze dropped from the magical night sky to meet Ethan's eyes.
"It seems," he continued, "that those calluses on your right hand are from painting. From art."
Ethan couldn't look away from the swirling stars above them. The deep blue seemed to seep into his vision, filling his cobalt eyes until they looked almost the same color as the magic he'd created.
The paint—because it was paint, somehow, oil paint rendered in pure magical energy—moved and shifted like a living thing. Beautiful. Perfect.
This is what I can do, Ethan thought, wonder and ambition mixing in his chest. This is just the beginning.
The stars began to fade slowly, the magical night sky dissolving back into nothing, leaving behind only the dusty reality of Ollivander's shop.
Ethan blinked and lowered his wand, feeling slightly dazed.
Ollivander was still smiling at him, extending one aged hand palm-up in an expectant gesture that was somehow both friendly and businesslike.
"Seven Galleons," he said pleasantly. "Thank you for your patronage, Mr...?"
"Vincent. Ethan Vincent."
"A pleasure, Mr. Vincent. I look forward to hearing great things about your time at Hogwarts."
Ethan reached into his pocket for the coin purse Snape had left him, his fingers closing around the heavy fabric.
Seven Galleons.
He opened the purse and counted out the coins, watching his funds diminish with each gold piece he handed over.
The purse felt noticeably lighter afterward.
And suddenly, the warm glow of excitement that had been filling him crashed directly into cold, hard reality.
Seven Galleons. Just for the wand.
And he still needed to buy: textbooks, a cauldron, potion ingredients, robes, a telescope, and about a dozen other things on the supply list.
The stipend Snape had given him was supposed to last... how long? Through the school year? For all his supplies plus spending money?
Ethan's mind did some quick, panicked math, and the numbers were not looking good.
How am I supposed to afford all of this?!
The thought hit him with the force of a truck—ironically, the same way he'd died in his previous life.
He stood there in Ollivander's shop, clutching his beautiful new wand, staring at his significantly depleted coin purse, and felt the crushing weight of financial reality settle over him like a wet blanket.
Making money.
That was priority number one. Not learning spells, not making friends, not even getting sorted into a house.
Money.
He needed to figure out how to make money, and fast, or this whole "magical education" thing was going to be a very short-lived dream.
Ethan clutched his new wand a little tighter, squared his shoulders, and headed back out into the chaos of Diagon Alley.
Time to get creative.