"Let's proceed straight to Gringotts," Professor McGonagall announced, her voice brisk, cutting through the heavy, tense atmosphere of the Alley. She noticed the slight tension around Anduin's shoulders, a subtle rigidity that betrayed his internal assessment of the patrolling Aurors. "We should secure your funds immediately. I suspect you are quite eager to exchange that rather large wad of Muggle money, Mr. Wilson."
Anduin, who was indeed eager to convert his carefully accrued profit into a secure, usable currency, nodded. "Eagerness aside, Professor, I prioritize securing the necessary resources. In any conflict, the logistic chain is paramount."
As they navigated the sparse crowds, McGonagall offered vital contextual knowledge. "Gringotts is the only wizarding bank in Britain. It is not run by the Ministry, nor by wizards, but by Goblins—a fiercely intelligent, somewhat aloof species. It is reputedly the second most secure location in the entire world, surpassed only by Hogwarts itself."
The claim of security was quickly evidenced.
They reached a conspicuous, gleaming white marble building situated precisely at the intersection of Diagon Alley and the ominous, narrow entrance to Knockturn Alley. The gate was guarded by two stern-faced Goblins wearing impeccably clean uniforms of red and gold, holding long, wicked-looking poleaxes.
Anduin felt an immediate sense of profound difference. This was not a place of polite, British compromise; this was a fortress of wealth and power, run by a non-human, uncompromising race.
They passed through a heavy, gleaming bronze outer door, the Goblin guards bowing stiffly at the sight of the Deputy Headmistress, acknowledging her status with cold respect. The second, silver inner door opened into a vast, awe-inspiring hall.
The space was a cathedral of finance: polished marble flooring, high vaulted ceilings, and a relentless, industrious energy. Behind a monumental counter stretching the length of the hall, perhaps a hundred Goblins sat perched on high stools. They were an absolute flurry of activity, furiously scribbling entries into enormous leather-bound ledgers, meticulously weighing coins on ancient scales, or peering at glinting gems through tiny monoculars.
The outside world may be spiraling into conflict, Anduin observed, absorbing the scene with professional detachment, but the business of wealth and commerce remains utterly insulated from the chaos. These Goblins serve money, not political factions.
McGonagall led Anduin directly to a free counter. Anduin calmly presented the paperwork: his acceptance letter and the scholarship notification, confirming the Twelve Galleons aid for 'financially disadvantaged' students.
"I will, of course, accept the scholarship funds, Professor. Having already applied, I believe it would be financially unsound to refuse a non-repayable grant," Anduin stated, fully intending to keep the aid money, despite his hidden wealth.
The Goblin teller, a creature with an intimidatingly sharp face and sharper eyes, accepted the funds and then, without preamble, processed Anduin's large sum of Muggle sterling. The entire transaction was cold, efficient, and over within minutes. He walked away with his initial scholarship funds and one hundred freshly minted Galleons—a sizeable fortune for an eleven-year-old—tucked securely into a simple, worn parchment pouch.
Outside, in the comparative brightness of the Alley, Anduin pulled out one of the new coins. It was heavy, circular, and gleaming with the deep, rich luster of high-carat gold.
"It looks like pure gold, but the texture is subtly different from the bullion I handled in my past life," Anduin noted, turning the coin over in his hand.
"Indeed. These are not simply minted," McGonagall explained, now significantly less reserved, clearly enjoying her role as his guide. "They are said to have been cast by the Goblins using a unique, potent forging method. Furthermore, each Galleon is enchanted with specific Goblin protection charms to prevent ordinary metallic counterfeiting. They are secure and trustworthy."
McGedical, she laughed, relieved. "Now, I imagine the next item on your mind is the most critical: your wand. In our world, you are, quite frankly, nothing without it."
McGonagall led him a short distance down the main thoroughfare to a narrow, strangely dusty shop. The gold lettering above the door, faded yet imposing, read: Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands Since 382 B.C.
The shop was a stark contrast to the marble fortress of Gringotts. It was cramped, cluttered, and steeped in an atmosphere of ancient mystery. A single, faded purple cushion in the window displayed a solitary, unassuming wand. Inside, cabinets stretched precariously high, reaching the darkened ceiling, packed tight with thousands of long, thin boxes.
Behind a high, worn counter, stood a figure every bit as esoteric as the shop itself: a tall, thin, old man with large, pale eyes that seemed to glow in the gloom. He was quietly polishing a wand, his attention absolute.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Ollivander. We require a wand for a new first-year," McGonagall announced.
Ollivander's pale eyes, which seemed to carry a frightening depth of knowledge, immediately swiveled from McGonagall to Anduin.
"Ah, Minerva. Three and a half inches, Firwood, Dragon heartstring, wasn't it? Such a long time ago. Time truly flies when the children are sent to us again." His eyes lingered on Anduin. "The days are difficult, aren't they? Did you hear about the skirmish yesterday near—"
"The disturbances will be contained, Garrick," McGonagall interjected, her voice sharp with caution, subtly cutting him off. Her eyes flickered quickly to Anduin. The last thing she needed was the proprietor of the most important shop in Britain discussing terrorism with a new student. "The Ministry is addressing the matter, and Headmaster Dumbledore is, as always, keeping the critical protections in place."
Ollivander gave a faint, almost mournful smile. "Yes. Albus. Without him setting things right, I suspect this shop would have been closed years ago. But we shall not dwell on the shadows. Let us see what destiny holds for this young man."
He approached Anduin, his pale eyes unnervingly fixed on the boy's face. "Hello, Mr. Wilson. It is a pleasure to see such politeness in these turbulent times."
"Hello, sir," Anduin replied, maintaining his composure despite the invasive gaze.
Ollivander produced a long, silver-marked tape measure from his coat. "Now, young man, which is your dominant arm?"
"Right-handed, sir."
Ollivander began the unusual ritual, measuring meticulously from Anduin's shoulder to his fingers, then from his wrist to his elbow. As the tape measure danced, Ollivander's thin, cold fingers briefly brushed Anduin's forearm.
"Hmm. So young, yet already possessing such defined muscularity. An impressive foundation, truly impressive," Ollivander murmured, a strange admiration in his voice.
Anduin fought the instinct to recoil. Great. I'm being professionally assessed by a very eccentric old man. Is this part of the wizarding experience, or just this specific shop owner's peculiarity? He forced himself to remain still, suspecting that this process was far more sensitive than a simple measurement.
Ollivander did not wait. He yanked a narrow box from a high shelf and presented the wand to Anduin. "Try this. Ash wood, Phoenix feather core, eleven and a half inches, quite unyielding and brave in nature."
Anduin took the wand. It felt inert, lifeless. He gave it a slight flick, as instructed by Ollivander's expectant expression.
WHOOSH! A sudden, entirely uncontrolled jet of fiery orange flame erupted from the tip of the wand, blasting harmlessly against the back wall.
"Ah, clearly not," Ollivander chirped, snatching the wand back with surprising speed. "A touch too volatile. Let us try something different. This one: Elm, Dragon heartstring, ten and three-quarter inches. A wand known for wisdom and grace, but demanding a powerful master."
Anduin reached for it, but Ollivander pulled it away just before his fingers closed around the box. "No, wait. I sense a deep reservoir of calculation here. This wood would only chafe against such discipline."
"Then perhaps this," Ollivander muttered, pulling another box. "Red Oak, male Unicorn hair, ten and a half inches, known for remarkable agility and a quick temper."
Anduin took the wand. It was slightly rough to the touch. He flicked his wrist again, expecting nothing, but the reaction was instantaneous and aggressive. The wand sent a sharp, kinetic pulse into the room, shattering a dusty glass jar on the counter.
"Ah, a strong connection, but too discordant! You possess great perception, young man, perhaps too much for the simpler materials!" Ollivander pulled the wand back, his eyes gleaming with excitement.
The trial continued, turning into an exhausting, high-speed rejection process. Anduin tried wands that felt cold, wands that felt aggressive, wands that simply flopped like wet noodles in his hand. Each failure was accompanied by a burst of harmless, but disruptive, magic.
Finally, Ollivander stopped, a look of focused concentration settling on his face. He disappeared into the deepest recesses of the towering cabinets. When he returned, he was holding a single, unboxed wand, which he presented with a reverence bordering on awe.
The wand was unlike any Anduin had seen. It resembled dark, highly polished black jade, sleek and profoundly beautiful.
"Try this, Mr. Wilson. This is a highly unusual piece. Ebony, twelve and a half inches, Lightning-Struck Planking, with a core I obtained from an extremely old contact—a fragment of a rare elemental lightning-infused material. It is exceedingly durable, fiercely loyal, and embodies an unwavering, resolute will. This wand demands a strong, clear, and uncompromising master."
The moment Anduin took the black wand, the air in the room seemed to crackle. It felt profoundly, instantly right. It was not merely an object; it was a perfect, seamless extension of his own core. The cold, electric fire he cultivated through his meditative practice—his latent 'Strength'—surged forward, finding a perfect, crystalline conductor.
He lifted the wand. He felt a deep, resonant hum against his palm. He flicked his wrist, and this time, there was no chaotic explosion. Instead, a brilliant, cold electric arc—a perfect, silent miniature bolt of lightning—flickered off the tip and dissipated into the air.
The electric light illuminated Ollivander's face, etched in a look of ultimate satisfaction.
"Yes! That is it! It is meant for you!" Ollivander cried, his voice brimming with the pure joy of the master craftsman. "I am truly delighted when every wand finds its correct, destined owner! I see you are immensely pleased with it."
"I am, Mr. Ollivander," Anduin agreed, his smile genuine and rare. This was not a tool; this was a weapon perfectly suited to his awakening power. The wand was his conductor.
"Ebony, or black ebony, is excellent for Transfiguration and combat magic, demanding immense courage and conviction from its user. It will shine in your hands, young man. The cost for a wizard's first wand is a fixed price of Seven Galleons—the rest is accounted for by the school. Do not lose it, or you will find yourself in trouble."
Anduin paid the seven Galleons immediately, the transaction feeling insignificant compared to the value of the perfect, electric-cored wand. He thanked Ollivander with genuine respect for the service rendered, and followed Professor McGonagall out of the ancient shop, the black wand clutched tightly in his hand, a tangible tether to his new, volatile destiny.