"To hold the wind, you must be the mountain." — Old Wizarding Proverb
November 4, 1968, Ollivanders, Diagon Alley
The shop was a labyrinth of stacked, haphazard boxes, smelling of sawdust, old parchment, and the lingering ozone tang of raw magic. Vega walked past the counter, his senses, amplified and refined by years of Metamorphmagus control exercises-cataloging the weak, scattered flows of magic emanating from the thousands of stored cores.
It felt like walking into a massive, quiet choir, each box on the shelves holding a silent note, a dormant melody of wood and core waiting to be sung. For Vega, the sensation was overwhelming, a vibrant reality that eclipsed any fear or political pressure.
Each core has a voice, he observed, his mind filing away the information with the dispassionate clarity of a Black, but his heart racing with the joy. The Unicorn Hair whispers of purity and healing. The Dragon Heartstring roars of power and fire.
This is magic, the core of his consciousness whispered, even after eleven years. This isn't just fantasy.
This feeling, the genuine, wide-eyed thrill of handling artifacts from a world he had only read about in impossible stories, was his constant counterweight to the suffocating gravitas of the House of Black.
"We shall not rush this," Ollivander whispered, moving a stack of boxes. "The wand must not only choose the wizard, but the wizard must intuitively understand the core of his magical self. For a Metamorphmagus, Mr. Black, the wood must be a canvas capable of holding every hue."
The first wand, Cherry and Phoenix Feather, was beautiful. Vega held it and felt the life inside it, a tiny, courageous heart beating against his palm. When he gave it a gentle wave, it sputtered, a polite but clear rejection. The magic felt too directed, too singular in its purpose.
"A loyal, focused core," Ollivander murmured, taking it back. "But your innate gift, Mr. Black, is that of formlessness. You require a core that does not seek a steady stream, but a boundless, shifting ocean."
He took the next, a Willow wand with Unicorn Hair. It felt like holding a polished spoon. The magic in his blood, the restless, low-frequency Hum that was the Metamorphmagus gift—rejected the core instantly. It wanted a singular, unwavering focus. Vega's magic was defined by the lack of a fixed point. When he gave the wand a sharp flick, the resulting spark was not just weak; it felt polite.
"A wand of singular devotion," Ollivander murmured, taking the piece back. "It seeks a master whose magical output is linear, predictable. Yours, Mr. Black, is anything but."
He took the next, a heavy Ash wand with Dragon Heartstring. This one offered raw power, a heat that felt aggressive and demanding. It wanted to be used for destruction, for quick, decisive force.
A magnificent piece of craft, Vega mused internally, but it's a tyrant. It demands subservience. My magic, it requires partnership, a willingness to be fluid.
He glanced over at his brothers. Sirius was leaning against Orion, fidgeting slightly, but his gaze was absolutely locked on Vega's process. Regulus, quieter, watched with a studious focus. Vega felt a profound surge of protective love. He was meant to guide them, to show them that the fear and rigidity imposed by some family members were secondary to the sheer, unbelievable vibrancy of the world they were inheriting.
I don't want a display for Siri and Reg, Vega thought, the warmth of genuine affection rushing through him. I want them something incredible, I want them to believe that there is so much more to this world.
He tried several others. A Holly wand, which felt heroic, shattered a small jar of beetle eyes. A Cedar wand, designed for a keen observer, merely felt polite in Vega's hand—not ideal for channeling the raw ocean of magic he had been taught to access.
The problem is the core, Vega realized, his mind processing the magical principles. The Dragon Heartstring, Phoenix Feather, and Unicorn Hair cores are the staples of British magic. They channel magic linearly. I need something that can handle the raw, chaotic energy of the Deep World spells—the intricate warding and spirit manipulation taught by the Khanate scholars.
"The challenge, Mr. Black," Ollivander said, his voice a dry whisper that seemed to come from the dust, "is that you are a being of change. A metamorphmagus's gift is the fluid mastery of form. You require a core that respects, perhaps even demands, formlessness."
Ollivander disappeared into the back, the bell over the door jingling faintly in his wake. He returned not with a box of wood, but with a narrow, obsidian sheath inlaid with polished jade.
"For your particular need, I have something that did not come through Ministry channels," Ollivander said. He opened the sheath, revealing a single, iridescent feather. It shimmered with the chaotic, layered colours of an oil slick—deep green fading into bronze, then a sharp, restless sky-blue.
He returned from the depths with a sheath carved of pale, veined jade. When he opened it, the light caught the plume inside. The feather was a cascade of greens and golds, a restless, luminous beauty that seemed to breathe with the energy of the air.
"The Plumed Serpent," Ollivander whispered. "A creature whose magic is the wind, the sky, and the beautiful, continuous cycle of transformation. It is one of the most intellectually complex cores in existence and is singularly picky about its' users. Vega felt an immediate, internal connection, a soft vibration, singing with a low, deep frequency that resonated with the static in his blood.
"And now for the wood", Ollivander breathed. He placed three blocks of wood on the counter. "We require a wood of unyielding loyalty. Something to anchor the chaos of the feather."
Vega ignored the first two. His eyes, and his magic, were drawn instantly to the third—a piece of rough, deceptively plain wood that radiated an enormous, quiet strength. Standing a foot away, he felt a powerful, almost childlike surge of joy and determination burst from the wood. It was a pure, profound magical intention.
Then, the impossible happened.
With a deep, resonant thrum that vibrated through the floorboards, the piece of wood flew from the counter. It slammed into Vega's outstretched hand, the contact immediate, warm, and perfectly fitted, as if it had been carved only for his grip.
A soft, golden light enveloped his hand and the wood, a temporary ward of mutual acceptance. The light faded, leaving the dark, honest timber perfectly settled in his palm.
Ollivander threw back his head and laughed, a dry, delighted sound that echoed in the dusty shop.
"Well! It seems we have found a partner for you, Mr. Black!" Ollivander exclaimed, a genuine, warm smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. "The wood has spoken with an urgency I have not seen in decades! The Oak, King of the Forest, does not wait for formalities. It recognizes its master's heart, and it is unwilling to wait."
Arcturus, who had remained frozen, rigid with surprise at the blatant magical display, finally relaxed, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face.
Vega looked down at the wood. The magic was a vibrant, joyful reality. He could feel the Oak's steady, profound courage flowing into him, anchoring the endless, shifting life of the Quetzalcoatl feather nearby.
He turned and looked at Sirius and Regulus. Sirius was gaping, his ice cream forgotten. Regulus's quiet face was lit by an expression of pure, unadulterated awe.
Ollivander retrieved the core: the iridescent plume of the Quetzalcoatl.
"This core is the spirit of transformation," he said, holding the feather over the Oak. "The air and the earth. The constant flow and the unbreakable root. To bind these two—the King and the Serpent, is no small task.
"I need time, Lord Arcturus," Ollivander announced, turning to the Patriarch. "To properly fuse the Oak's spirit with the Serpent's breath, requires a ritual of alignment. I ask for one hour. You may return then."
November 4, 1968, The Ice Cream Parlour, Diagon Alley
The family procession moved out of the dimly lit shop and into the bustling street. Arcturus, impatient with the delay but acknowledging the unique nature of the materials, led them toward Fortescue's.
Vega, relieved to be away from the suffocating pressure of the wand selection, immediately turned his attention to his younger brothers.
"Chocolate-Chili or Pumpkin-Praline?" he asked Sirius, pulling him into the warmth of the parlour.
Sirius, his earlier anxiety replaced by the thrill of the outing, grinned. "Chocolate-Chili! The kind that burns, Vega!"
Regulus, quiet and meticulous, piped up, "Just vanilla for me, please. The structure of pure flavor."
Vega ruffled both their dark heads, feeling the solid, familiar love for his two closest kin. This was the why. This deep, uncomplicated bond was the reason he accepted the heavy mantle of the House.
"Then two Chili-Chocolates and a Vanilla, ordered by the magnificent logic of Regulus," Vega declared, catching the eye of a house-elf servant and transmitting the order with a silent nod.
He watched the two boys. Sirius was already eyeing the colourful jars of crystallised fruit with a reckless abandon. Regulus was observing the other customers, filing their demeanour away.
"The Oak asked for courage, Sirius," Vega said softly, leaning closer. "It asked for a wizard who would be a friend to those things that are fragile and beautiful. It's a wood that is deeply attuned to the natural magic of the world—the magic of the seasons, the hidden life in the forest."
He pulled a small, smooth stone from his pocket and rubbed it between his fingers. "Did you feel the difference? The Dragon Heartstring wanted noise. The Oak wanted trust. It is the most wondrous concept in the world, brother. We live in a place where we can make a tiny flower grow with a silent thought, where the very core of a god of wind can be bound to the heart of the forest. It is beautiful, impossible magic."
Vega's face was alight, the cold mask of the Heir completely dropped, revealing the genuine, fervent love for his impossible reality.
Sirius, captivated by Vega's enthusiasm, lowered his voice. "Does it mean you can talk to the plants?"
"Perhaps not talk, but understand," Vega mused, taking his ice cream. "The Oak wood is associated with intuitive magic, a sense that bypasses language. It will allow me to feel the subtle magic of the earth, the secret patterns of growth. It reminds us that magic is not just spells and curses. It's the life in every seed, the resilience in every winter tree. It is all the most beautiful things in the world, and we are its caretakers."
He smiled warmly at his brothers. "We have the privilege, Sirius. The privilege to protect this wondrous thing."
November 4, 1968, Ollivanders, Diagon Alley
The hour had passed in a blur of sugar and noise at Fortescue's, but for Vega, it had been an hour of holding his breath. When they pushed back into the dim, dusty stillness of Ollivanders, the air felt different. The anticipatory hum was gone, replaced by a heavy, settled silence—the kind that hangs over a valley after a storm has broken.
Ollivander was waiting.
He stood behind the counter, his pale hands resting on a long, slender box. He looked tired, as if the crafting had taken a physical toll, but his silver eyes burned with a terrifying, artistic satisfaction.
"It is done," the wandmaker whispered.
He didn't hand the box over immediately. He looked at Arcturus, then at the boys, and finally settled his gaze on Vega.
"I have crafted many wands, Mr. Black. Some are weapons. Some are tools. But this..." He tapped the lid. "This is a living thing. The English Oak is a wood of the earth, stubborn and loyal. The Quetzalcoatl feather is a creature of the wind and the changing sky. To bind them was not a matter of construction, but of negotiation."
He lifted the lid.
Sirius gasped, a small, sharp sound that cut through the quiet.
The wand lay on a bed of faded violet velvet. It was unmistakably English Oak, possessing that dense, reliable grain, but it had been utterly transformed. It didn't look like dead wood; it looked like a branch that was still dreaming of the forest.
The wood wasn't brown, but a deep, burnished bronze that seemed to hold an inner light. Running through the grain were faint, hairline veins of iridescence—the influence of the Serpent's feather bleeding through the timber. It pulsed with a soft, rhythmic luminescence, a heartbeat of pale teal and gold that waxed and waned like a slow tide.
It was beautiful in a way that hurt. It was the physical weight of a promise.
"Go on," Ollivander urged softly.
Vega reached out. His hand trembled, not from fear, but from a sudden, overwhelming sense of recognition.
The moment his skin brushed the warm, luminescent wood, the world fell away.
There was no sound of a canon blast, no shower of sparks. Instead, there was a sudden, absolute wholeness. It felt as though a limb he hadn't realized was missing had been suddenly returned to him. The chaotic, buzzing static of his Metamorphmagus blood—the noise that had been the background radiation of his entire life—suddenly harmonized.
Silence.
A perfect, crystalline silence that wasn't empty, but full.
Then, the reaction came.
A wind rose up inside the shop, not a draft, but a warm, scented breeze that smelled of ozone, rain-soaked earth, and ancient, sun-warmed stone. It swirled around Vega, lifting the edges of his robes, ruffling Sirius's hair. The dust motes in the air caught fire—not burning, but glowing, turning into thousands of tiny, floating stars that drifted in the current of the wind.
The wand in Vega's hand flared, the iridescent veins widening until the entire shaft seemed to be made of solid, glowing light. He felt the Oak's sturdy courage anchor him to the floor, while the Quetzalcoatl's wind sought to lift him into the sky.
It was the most terrifyingly beautiful thing he had ever felt.
"It breathes," Vega whispered, his voice cracking. He wasn't speaking to the room. He was speaking to the wand.
He felt the wand's consciousness brush against his own—a distinct, loyal presence that felt like a great dog resting its head on his knee, or a tree sheltering him from the rain. It was a partnership. I am here, it seemed to say. We are ready.
He looked up, his eyes bright with unshed tears, the cynicism of the Heir forgotten. He looked at Sirius, who was watching him with wide, worshipful eyes, seeing his big brother holding a piece of a star.
"It fits, Grandfather," Vega said, his voice thick with emotion. "It... it completes the circuit."
Arcturus Black, usually a statue of cold indifference, leaned forward on his cane. He watched the glowing dust, the wind, and the light radiating from his grandson. He didn't smile, but his shoulders lowered, the tension of the day dissolving.
"The King of the Forest," Ollivander murmured, watching the magic settle back into the wood, leaving it warm and humming in Vega's grip. "And the Serpent of the Sky. You have a powerful friend there, Mr. Black. Treat it well, and it will never break."
Vega carefully, almost reluctantly, lowered the wand, sliding it into his sleeve. He could still feel it against his arm, a warm, steady weight.
"I will," Vega promised, and he meant it more than any oath he had ever sworn to the House. "I will."
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I think this is my best chapter yet! Really hope you guys are enjoying the stories :D Please comment and review!!