"Oh, dear," Madam Malkin breathed when Tyler stepped down in his new wizarding robes. She pressed one hand dramatically to her chest, her round face glowing with delight as she looked him over. "You are the most handsome young wizard I have ever fitted."
"Thank you, madam," Tyler said with polite sincerity. He smoothed one sleeve, testing the weight of the fabric, and gave her a small nod. "Your craftsmanship is excellent as well."
Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions was not famous without reason. As one of the main shops serving Hogwarts students, it welcomed first-years every summer and supplied school robes for children from nearly every kind of magical family. The robes were simple, but simple clothing revealed poor work faster than fancy decoration ever could.
The wizarding world had a very small population compared to the Muggle one, and that made certain businesses feel almost unavoidable. There were other clothing shops in Diagon Alley, of course, but Madam Malkin's remained the safest and most reliable choice for school robes. In a world this small, reputation mattered almost as much as magic.
After paying for the robes, Tyler left the shop with Timo following at his heels. By then, Diagon Alley had begun to wake properly, and the quiet street from earlier had filled with movement. Robes brushed against robes, owls hooted from cages, and shop bells chimed as families hurried in and out with school lists clutched in their hands.
The beginning of a new Hogwarts year always made Diagon Alley busy. Wizarding parents brought their children to buy cauldrons, quills, books, robes, and pets, while older students drifted through the crowd in loose groups, pretending they were far too experienced to be excited. Every few steps, someone was arguing about the price of parchment or trying to stop a younger sibling from pressing their nose against a broomstick display.
There were Muggle-born students as well, though they were only a small part of the crowd. Muggle-born witches and wizards were rare, and in a country with tens of millions of people, only a handful entered Hogwarts each year. Most first-years came from magical families in one way or another, even if those families had not stayed pure-blood for generations.
At Hogwarts, pure-blood children and Muggle-born children were both minorities. Most students were half-bloods, born from one magical parent and one Muggle parent, or from families where the lines had mixed long ago. Blood status mattered far too much to some people, but numbers alone made the truth obvious.
"Timo, we'll split up," Tyler said after stepping aside to avoid a witch carrying a stack of wobbling cauldrons. He pulled the Hogwarts supply list from his pocket and handed it to the house-elf. "Go to Flourish and Blotts and buy the schoolbooks for me, then go to Potage's Cauldron Shop and purchase a cauldron."
Timo accepted the list with both hands as though Tyler had entrusted him with a royal decree. His ears perked up, and his eyes shone with serious purpose. "Young master?"
"I'll go to Ollivanders and buy my wand myself," Tyler continued. "That part can't be handled by anyone else. Is that clear?"
"Yes, young master," Timo said at once. He bowed so low that his long nose nearly touched the cobblestones. "Timo is honored to serve you."
Tyler watched him hurry away, thin legs moving quickly beneath the spotless pillowcase, then turned toward Ollivanders. House-elves took pride in service to a degree that still felt excessive, but it was useful when there were errands to divide. Buying books and a cauldron did not require Tyler's personal attention, but buying a wand absolutely did.
The wand trade was close to a monopoly in Britain. Diagon Alley had many shops, but when it came to wands, Ollivanders stood alone as the name every witch and wizard knew. It would not be too much to call the Ollivander family the arms dealers of the British wizarding world.
In Europe, the most famous wandmakers were Ollivander of Britain and Gregorovitch of the continent. Others existed, certainly, but those two names carried the most weight. A good wand could shape a wizard's entire future, and no one with sense treated that choice lightly.
Ollivanders itself looked nothing like a place that held such importance. The shop was small, narrow, and shabby, with peeling paint and a faded gold sign above the door. The words on it read: Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.
In the dusty front window, a single wand lay alone on a faded purple cushion. It looked lonely and unimpressive, yet the quiet display seemed deliberate, as though the shop had no need to shout for attention. Anyone who needed a wand already knew where to come.
This was Tyler's first time entering Ollivanders. He had cast magic without a wand before, but wandless magic was not the standard among wizards, and he had no desire to appear too unusual in public. A proper wand was a symbol, a tool, and a disguise all at once.
He pushed open the door, and a bell rang somewhere in the back of the shop. The sound was thin and clear, echoing through the cramped space. Inside, the shop seemed even smaller than it had from outside, with only a narrow counter, a single bench, and thousands upon thousands of long, thin boxes stacked all the way up to the ceiling.
Tyler knew each box contained a wand. The air smelled of dust, old wood, and faint traces of magic, layered so thickly that the shop felt older than the street outside. It was the kind of place where even silence seemed to be listening.
"Good morning," a soft voice said suddenly. "Here to purchase a wand, are you?"
Tyler turned his head. An old man had appeared behind the counter so quietly that it was almost as if he had stepped out from between the shelves. His pale, silvery eyes were fixed on Tyler with unnerving intensity.
"Yes, sir," Tyler replied. "I need a wand."
"Your name?" Mr. Ollivander asked.
"My name is Tyler Blake," Tyler said. He paused for half a second, then added, "If you knew Henry Blake and Elizabeth Blake, they were my parents."
Although Tyler had long since lost any real impression of the parents who died when he was still an infant, their names still belonged to this life. They had existed, fought, and died in the war that shaped the world he now lived in. That much, at least, deserved acknowledgment.
"Of course," Mr. Ollivander said softly. "Of course I remember. I remember every wand I have ever sold. Mr. and Mrs. Blake were brave Aurors, and it was a great pity that they died fighting You-Know-Who."
His gaze drifted slightly, as if he were looking not at Tyler but at a shelf of old memories. Then he continued, "Your parents' wands were both aspen with dragon heartstring, thirteen inches. Aspen is well suited to combative magic, and those chosen by it are often excellent duelists."
Tyler listened quietly. He did not interrupt, and he did not ask questions he already knew had no useful answer. Ollivander's memory for wands was famous, and this strange old man seemed to treat every wand he had made as part of a living record.
"Well then, Mr. Blake," Ollivander said, suddenly brisk again. He pulled a long measuring tape with silver markings from his pocket. "Let us see. Which is your wand hand?"
"My right hand, sir," Tyler replied.
"Raise your arm, please. I need to take your measurements first."
The measuring tape flew from Ollivander's hand and began working on its own. It measured Tyler's arm from shoulder to fingertip, then the distance from wrist to elbow, then around his head, across his shoulders, down his spine, and even from knee to heel. Tyler stood still and allowed the absurd process to continue.
"Every Ollivander wand contains a powerful magical core," Ollivander said as the tape fluttered around Tyler like an eager silver snake. "That core is its essence. We generally use unicorn hair, phoenix feather, and dragon heartstring."
He turned and began removing several long boxes from the shelves behind him. His fingers moved with confidence, sliding one box free, rejecting another, then drawing out two more with barely a glance. "Every Ollivander wand is unique, because no two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are exactly alike."
"Of course," Ollivander continued, returning to the counter with a box in hand, "if you use a wand that truly belongs to another wizard, it will never work as well for you. The wand chooses the wizard, Mr. Blake. That is not a slogan. It is the foundation of the craft."
Tyler's eyes moved from the boxes to Ollivander's face. He knew that line, but hearing it here, in this cramped shop full of old magic, made it feel less like a phrase from a story and more like a rule written into the bones of the world. A wand was not merely a tool. It judged.
"Come now, Mr. Blake," Ollivander said, opening the first box. "Try this one. Aspen and dragon heartstring, twelve inches."
He handed Tyler the wand. The moment Tyler wrapped his fingers around it, a sharp pressure rushed up his arm, and before he could fully restrain it, a destructive burst of light shot from the tip. The spell-like flare slammed into the shelves behind the counter and blew several wand boxes apart in a spray of splinters and dust.
"Oh!" Ollivander cried, though he sounded more fascinated than alarmed. He snatched the wand back from Tyler's hand with impressive speed. "I must say, Mr. Blake, your magic is extraordinarily powerful. I have never seen a young wizard with magic quite like yours."
Tyler looked at the wreckage behind the counter without changing expression. The broken boxes smoked faintly, and several loose wands rolled across the floor. Ollivander, however, did not seem to care about the damage to his shop at all.
"But clearly," the wandmaker said, placing the rejected wand aside, "this one is not for you."
He turned back to the shelves and pulled out another box. His pale eyes gleamed, sharper now, as if Tyler had become a particularly interesting puzzle.
"Then try this," Ollivander said. "Hawthorn wood and unicorn hair, thirteen inches!"