Helga stretched her arms high above her head, feeling the tension melt from her muscles before sighing in relief. A wide grin spread across her face as she stepped across the stone bridge, the warmth of the spring sun kissing her skin. The crisp scent of freshly bloomed flowers mixed with the earthy aroma of damp leaves, carried by a gentle breeze that rustled through the budding trees.
Rowena and Salazar walked beside her, but their glances kept drifting back to the fourth member of their group—Godric, trailing slightly behind. His hands were stuffed into the pockets of his tattered jeans, the black leather jacket he wore hanging loosely over his shoulders. Beneath it, bandages peeked out from beneath a worn and slightly bloodstained shirt, wrapped tightly around his bruised torso. His once fiery red hair had been dyed black, with streaks of dark crimson running through it like veins of dried blood.
Salazar and Rowena exchanged a look—concern flickering in their eyes. His new sense of style was unsettling, but it wasn't just that. It was the way he carried himself, the weight in his steps, the way his crimson eyes seemed devoid of their usual fire.
Oblivious to the tension, Helga turned mid-stride, walking backward with an almost infectious enthusiasm. "Oh, it's so great to finally be out and about without having to bundle up like some overstuffed ball of yarn!" She spread her arms wide, tilting her face toward the sky. "If there's one thing I love about Caerleon, it's spring."
"Well, I could certainly do without the allergies," Salazar muttered, rubbing his nose. "I swear, one of these days, all this damned pollen is going to suffocate me in my sleep."
Rowena, however, kept her attention on Godric, attempting to draw him into the conversation. "How's spring back in your town, Godric?" she asked gently.
He barely lifted his gaze, his expression shadowed with annoyance. "It's… fine," he muttered. "Nothing special."
Rowena hesitated before clearing her throat. "By the way, I, uh… like the new look," she offered, clearly grasping for words. "It's… unique."
"Like an angry oil slick," Helga chimed in with a grin. "Especially the hair."
"Helga!" Rowena shot her a look of exasperation before turning back to Godric. "She doesn't mean that."
Godric sighed sharply. "Why exactly are we out here?" His tone held little patience. "I have training to do. The last thing I need is to be wasting time wandering around this damned town."
Helga's grin faded, and Rowena's expression softened. Both of them turned to Salazar, silently urging him to take the lead.
"We figured you could use a new wand," Salazar said.
Godric scoffed. "I already have a wand, Salazar. It's working just fine."
"That's just a temporary replacement." Salazar's emerald eyes met his with a knowing stare. "One that clearly isn't suited for you, given how you've been fumbling your spells in Charms lately."
Godric opened his mouth, then closed it again, jaw tightening.
"You see, Godric," Rowena began, "a wand isn't just a tool. It's an extension of a wizard, much like a sword to a knight. Anyone can pick up a blade, but the best swords are forged to match the wielder. The weight, the balance, the grip—everything must align perfectly. A wand is no different."
"And I'd wager your first wand wasn't made for you either," Salazar added, tilting his head slightly.
Godric exhaled sharply. "It was given to me by Headmaster Blaise," he admitted. "Probably left behind by an old student from Excalibur. Until a year ago, I didn't even know magic existed. I didn't know Avalon was real. I didn't know wands were even a thing."
Rowena hummed thoughtfully, rubbing her chin. "That would explain why you struggled so much with magic, even before your wand was destroyed."
"And lucky for you, we know just the place to fix that!" Helga beamed, practically bouncing on her heels as she gestured down the winding path. "The one place every witch and wizard goes to for a wand."
Godric raised an eyebrow. "And that place is?"
Salazar smirked. "You'll see soon enough."
****
The four friends made their way through the bustling shopping district, their steps eventually leading them to a small, weathered storefront nestled between taller, grander buildings. Godric recognized the street immediately—it was the same one where Quibble's bookstore stood, only a stone's throw away. That realization alone sent a dull pang through his chest, a quiet ache he had long since stopped trying to smother.
The shop's wooden walls, once painted a rich black, were now faded and chipped, their surface worn from years of neglect. The squared windows, thick with a layer of grime that refracted the dim evening light into prismatic streaks, hinted at years of dust and exhaust settling into the glass. It glimmered faintly, as if someone had once spilled glitter into the air and let time do the rest.
Godric lifted his gaze to the sign above the door, the name Ollivanders etched in faded gold, its letters dulled by age but still legible. Salazar, Helga, and Rowena stepped forward first, pushing the door open as a soft chime rang in response. Salazar glanced over his shoulder, gesturing for Godric to follow. With a shrug, he stepped in after them.
The moment he entered, he was met with the scent of aged parchment, candle wax, and something faintly metallic, like old magic lingering in the air. The shop was dimly lit, its only illumination coming from several crystal lights suspended overhead, their glow casting long, wavering shadows across the dark oaken floors. Shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, stacked high with slender, elongated boxes in various shades of mahogany, ebony, and ashen gray. It felt cramped, almost claustrophobic, the sheer number of wands giving the room an overwhelming presence, as if the walls themselves were watching.
Helga's amber eyes gleamed with excitement as she wandered between the shelves, running her fingers along the edges of the wand boxes. Rowena, more reserved, inspected a box closely, her fingers tracing the delicate engravings as if contemplating whether she should replace her own wand. Godric, however, made his way toward the counter, his gaze scanning the space.
The countertop was cluttered with open books, a thick ledger penned in red ink resting beside a well-worn quill still dipped in an inkwell. A faint scent of coffee hung in the air, likely from the still-steaming mug perched precariously between stacks of parchment.
Then, their attention snapped upward as the metallic clink of a ladder rolling along a track echoed through the shop. The ladder slid into view, revealing an older man perched near the upper shelves. He peered down at them through his half-moon spectacles, pale blue eyes twinkling with quiet amusement.
His hair, stark white and slightly unkempt, framed his face in wild frills, as though he had been too preoccupied with his craft to care much for appearances. Dressed in a woolen lavender jacket over a crisp white shirt, his sleeves peeked past his cuffs, giving him a scholarly yet absentminded air.
"A little late to be shopping for wands, isn't it?" The older man mused. His gaze flicked over them before landing on the two girls. "Miss Hufflepuff and Miss Ravenclaw."
He slid smoothly down the ladder, his movements fluid despite his age.
Helga's face lit up in surprise. "Oh, you remember us?" she asked, eyes wide with delight.
"My dear, I remember every wand I've ever sold," he replied with a knowing glint in his eye. He turned to her with a slight smirk. "Acacia, unicorn core, twelve and a quarter inches, rather flexible if I recall correctly?"
Helga gasped as if he had read her mind. "Yes!"
He then turned his attention to Rowena, nodding approvingly. "And yours, Miss Ravenclaw—walnut, phoenix feather core, thirteen inches. An excellent match for someone of your caliber."
Rowena smiled, dipping her head slightly in acknowledgment.
Then, the man's gaze shifted to Salazar. His sharp eyes examined him for a moment before shaking his head. "Ah, unfortunately, you did not acquire your wand from my store, Mister Slytherin."
Salazar smirked; arms crossed over his chest. "No, I did not."
"But," Ollivander continued, eyes narrowing with intrigue, "from what I've seen, it was crafted with impeccable skill. Whoever made it was no mere amateur."
"I'm sure he's delighted to have your seal of approval, Mister Ollivander," Salazar replied smoothly.
Ollivander let out a quiet chuckle before turning his attention to the last member of the group—his gaze settling on Godric. He took a step closer, studying the boy with curiosity, as if trying to place him within the thousands of faces he had encountered over the years.
"And who might this be?" His voice held a note of intrigue. "A new student?" He peered at him over his spectacles. "I don't recall Excalibur ever accepting transfers… let alone one so late in the year."
"He's a special case," Rowena interjected before Godric could speak. "He needs a new wand."
"Ahh…" Ollivander's expression shifted, something gleaming in his eyes as he extended a hand. "Gerald Ollivander, wandmaker extraordinaire, at your service."
Godric hesitated before clasping the man's hand in a firm shake. "Godric Gryffindor. Nice to meet you," he muttered.
Ollivander gave him a small smile before releasing his grip, rubbing his hands together as if already lost in thought. "Now then," he said, stepping back and adjusting his spectacles, "let's find you a wand, shall we?"
The old man hummed softly to himself as he turned on his heel and strode toward the back of the shop, his fingers ghosting over the stacks upon stacks of wand boxes that lined the towering shelves. His movements were slow but deliberate, his gaze darting from one case to the next as he muttered under his breath, sifting through decades—if not centuries—of craftsmanship with the ease of a man who had done this more times than he could count.
Godric leaned in closer to Salazar. "He's… odd."
Salazar smirked but didn't look away from Ollivander's meticulous selection process. "Perhaps, but you won't find a more skilled wandmaker in all of Avalon."
"Mister Ollivander comes from a long line of wandmakers," Rowena added, stepping closer as she watched the old man work, her scholarly curiosity piqued. "Their craft dates back to the days of the Five Heroes. There isn't a single student in Excalibur who doesn't own a wand with the Ollivander mark." She cast a sideways glance at Salazar. "Well… almost all."
Salazar chuckled, crossing his arms. "What's the matter, Ravenclaw? Jealous?"
Rowena narrowed her eyes at him, lips parting as if to fire back a retort, but before she could, Ollivander returned with a slim wooden box in hand.
"Ah, here we are." He flipped open the lid, revealing a wand of rich, honeyed oak. "Oak, nine inches, unicorn hair core. Quite sturdy." He extended it toward Godric, his pale blue eyes twinkling with expectation. "Go on then, lad. Give it a wave."
Godric hesitated, his fingers curling around the wand's smooth surface. The weight was unfamiliar, but it settled comfortably in his grasp. He took a slow breath, steadying himself, and then gave it a small flick.
A deafening crack split the air.
The shelves rattled violently as dozens of wand boxes shot from their places, bursting into the air like startled birds. They clattered to the floor in a chaotic mess, some spinning wildly before tumbling to a stop.
Ollivander blinked, lips pressing into a thin line before he sighed. "Ah. Apparently not." He plucked the wand from Godric's grasp and slipped it neatly back into its case before turning on his heel and disappearing into the back again, already muttering to himself about alternatives.
Godric's heart was still hammering against his ribs as he turned to the others. "Was that… normal?"
"Oh, perfectly normal!" Helga beamed. "You should've seen what happened when I tried my first wand! Blew out the front windows. Glass everywhere! It was magnificent."
Salazar groaned. "That certainly explains the loud explosion I heard while shopping all those years ago."
"Took me three tries and several different stores before I finally got one that worked for me," Helga added cheerfully.
"Oh, Helga," Rowena groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Those poor shopkeepers."
Ollivander returned with another box, this one smaller and more refined, its wooden edges polished to a smooth sheen. With practiced ease, he flipped open the lid, revealing a pale, elegant wand resting on a bed of deep blue velvet.
"Willow. Dragon heartstring. Thirteen inches." He lifted the wand from its case, turning it gently in his fingers before extending it toward Godric.
Godric eyed it warily, his grip tightening as he took the wand in hand. The wood was smooth, almost unnervingly so, and a strange warmth pulsed faintly from its core. He inhaled, steadying himself, and gave it a measured wave.
A deafening crack resounded through the shop.
The porcelain mug on the desk exploded into a hundred jagged pieces, sending shards flying in every direction as dark coffee splattered across the counter and dripped onto the floor. Godric jerked back, nearly dropping the wand as he stared wide-eyed at the mess.
"Nope! Nope, definitely not!" Ollivander cried, snatching the wand from Godric's grip with surprising speed before snapping the box shut. Without missing a beat, he flicked his own wand, and in an instant, the shattered porcelain reassembled itself, the coffee reversing midair back into the repaired mug as if nothing had happened.
The four friends remained silent, exchanging glances as Ollivander muttered to himself, disappearing into the depths of his shop once more. This time, when he returned, he carried a different box—one far older than the others. The wood of the case was faded, worn with age, and a thin layer of dust clung to its surface. With a slow, reverent breath, he blew the dust away, revealing the barely visible engraving of a crest upon the lid.
"There we go," he murmured. "I have a good feeling about this one."
He opened the box, and inside lay a wand of deep red oak, its grain rich and dark, with a grip that seemed almost molded to fit the palm of a hand. There was an unmistakable presence about it—something ancient, something powerful.
"Red Oak. Griffin feather core. Twelve and a half inches," Ollivander announced, lifting it carefully before handing it to Godric.
The moment Godric's fingers closed around the wood, a force surged through him, raw and untamed. A sudden gust of wind erupted from where he stood, rustling through the shop, sending loose parchment and stray papers flapping wildly before settling into an eerie stillness. The very air in the room shifted, crackling with something unspoken.
Godric's breath hitched as he stared at the wand in his grasp, his fingers curling tighter around it. His friends watched; their eyes wide with astonishment. Helga clutched at Rowena's sleeve, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet.
"How… amusing," Ollivander murmured, adjusting his glasses as he studied the scene before him.
"Amusing?" Godric finally spoke. "How so?"
Ollivander's gaze sharpened. "As I mentioned before, Mister Gryffindor, I remember every wand I've ever sold, every wand I've ever crafted. And that one… has rejected more witches and wizards than I can count. It has remained abandoned, forgotten at the edges of this shop for decades." He paused, tilting his head ever so slightly. "How amusing that after all these years, it would choose you."
Godric blinked, his grip tightening.
Ollivander leaned in, the light in his pale blue eyes gleaming with something unreadable. "Even more amusing still," he continued, "is the fact that this wand—its build, its materials, its very nature—mirrors that of one once wielded by none other than King Uther Pendragon himself."
A stunned silence filled the shop. Salazar stiffened. Rowena's lips parted slightly, her keen mind already racing to process the implications. Helga let out a small gasp, her hands clapping over her mouth. Godric swallowed hard, staring down at the wand that now rested in his palm, feeling the weight of history pressing into him. He could still feel the faint hum of power thrumming beneath his fingertips, a resonance that sent a shiver up his spine.
"So… what does that mean?" he finally asked.
Ollivander clasped his hands behind his back, tilting his head slightly as he studied the boy before him. "What it means, Mister Gryffindor," he said, "is that like Uther Pendragon before you—one of the Five Heroes of Avalon—we can expect great things from you."
For a moment, the words hung in the air.
Great things.
Godric let out a slow breath, his fingers curling a little tighter around the wand. He didn't feel great. He didn't feel like a hero. He felt like a blade honed for war, like something sharp and broken, tempered in grief and rage. But he'd long since stopped believing that what he felt mattered.
He looked up, his crimson eyes burning with a quiet intensity, and gave a single nod.
"I'll take it," he said.
Ollivander smiled knowingly, as if he had already known the answer before it had left Godric's lips.
****
The café buzzed with life, a symphony of clinking porcelain, murmured conversations, and occasional bursts of laughter from students sharing pastries and warm drinks. The air carried the rich aroma of roasted coffee, interwoven with hints of cinnamon and mint, a scent that should have been comforting. But at the far end of the café, where Godric, Salazar, Rowena, and Helga sat, there was no warmth, no laughter—only a tense, suffocating silence.
Godric sat with his arms crossed, a steaming mug of black coffee before him, its inky surface as dark as the color he had drowned his hair in. Across from him, his friends exchanged wary glances, hesitating, waiting for someone to speak first.
Helga cleared her throat and picked at her strawberry shortcake, forcing a bright, albeit strained, smile. "So… uh, how's the Potions assignment coming along? I—"
"Why are we here?" Godric cut in, eyes flicking between them. "Really here. And I want the truth this time."
Rowena sighed, setting her teacup down with deliberate care. "We just… we wanted to talk."
Godric scoffed, slamming his hands on the table hard enough to make the silverware rattle. "An intervention. Of course. So much for a simple trip to get a new wand. Did you really think I wouldn't notice? That I wouldn't see through this?"
"Godric, it's not like that—" Rowena began.
"Oh, come off it, Rowena," Salazar interjected, leaning forward. His emerald gaze locked onto Godric's, unflinching. "If that's what he wants to call it, let's not waste time pretending otherwise. Fine. It's an intervention."
Godric leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "Alright, then. Let's get this over with."
"Godric, don't do this," Helga said. "We're not your enemies."
He let out a bitter laugh. "Could have fooled me."
Helga shook her head, undeterred. "You don't eat properly. You barely sleep. And every time we see you, you're more beaten up than before."
"Really?" Godric raised an eyebrow, smirking. "You should see the other guys."
"That's not the boast you think it is," Rowena snapped, her patience wearing thin. "I can overlook your obsession with fighting, but you've been skipping class. Not just once or twice. You disappear for days. The professors are asking questions, and we can't keep making excuses for you.
"Nobody asked you to cover for me, Rowena," Godric muttered. "And what are they going to do? Expel me? Go ahead. I don't care anymore."
Salazar exhaled slowly, shaking his head. "Expulsion? Is that really what you want? Because between your bloody brawls in The Congregation," he lifted one finger, then another, counting, "the fact that you've torn through nearly a dozen clans, packed the Hospital Wing to capacity, drowned yourself in every drink available, and practically moved into the Ignis training room—tell me, Godric, what's your endgame?"
Godric scoffed. "I don't have one. I'm handling things the only way I know how. My way."
"And that's the problem," Rowena interjected. "You're spiraling. You're hurt. You're grieving. And I understand that. But you don't just want justice, do you? You don't want fairness. You want people to suffer like you have. You want an outlet for your rage." Her voice softened slightly. "But it's never going to be enough. No matter how much blood you spill. It won't stop the pain."
Godric's jaw tightened.
"You asked us to help you before," Helga added. "Back when you had to fight Volg. And we did. We stood by you. Let us help you again."
Godric inhaled sharply. "I don't want your help. I don't need your help, or anyone else's." His words trembled with anger. "I just want to be left alone. So stop telling me how to fix myself."
Salazar let out a dry, humorless laugh. "Is that so?" He shook his head. "It's easier this way, isn't it? Almost fun, dismissing the people who actually care about you. Easier than facing the grief, the pain." He leaned forward, elbows on the table, fingers interlocked. "But you're not the only one who knows loss, Gryffindor."
Godric shot up from his chair, eyes burning. "You don't know me, Salazar! You don't know anything!"
Salazar stood as well, meeting his fury with his own. "And you know nothing, Godric Gryffindor!"
"Salazar, Godric, please," Rowena pleaded.
But they didn't hear her.
"You think you have the monopoly on pain?" Godric seethed. "You think you know what it's like to wake up every morning and wish you hadn't? To lie in bed every night hoping that when morning comes, you cease to exist? Don't pretend to understand!"
"I know it more than you do," Salazar shot back. "You think your grief is overwhelming? You lost Raine, and I get that. I truly do. But grief isn't an excuse to lash out, to tear people apart just because you can."
"They came to me, Salazar! They wanted a fight; I just gave them what they were looking for!"
"Only because you made sure they would," Salazar snapped. "Don't be an idiot, Gryffindor. You issued the challenge. You knew they'd take the bait. You wanted them to."
"I did it for the slaves, Salazar! Someone had to protect them!"
"Did you?" Salazar narrowed his gaze. "Did you do it for them? Or did you do it for yourself? Did you carve through every opponent just to numb the pain, to distract yourself from the hole she left inside you?"
He gestured at him. "Look at yourself, Godric. Take a long, hard look. You look nothing like the boy who stepped off the train that day, wide-eyed and excited. The boy who promised Raine he would love her for all time."
Godric's breath caught in his throat.
"And with the way you are now…" Salazar leaned in. "What makes you think she'd even want anything to do with you?"
A violent rage flashed in Godric's eyes, and before he even realized it, he had grabbed Salazar by the jacket, his grip tight, his teeth bared like a cornered beast.
Helga jumped from her seat; eyes wide. "Enough!" Her voice rang through the café. "Both of you! Godric, let him go."
For a moment, Godric didn't move, his grip remaining firm, his breathing ragged. Salazar met his glare with an unyielding stare of his own, not backing down, not breaking. But then, slowly, Godric's hands loosened, his fingers trembling before he released his hold on Salazar, stepping back, his own body shaking. Godric's gaze swept over the entire café as every eye was not upon them, upon him, looking with both fear and concern.
Helga swallowed, steadying herself. "This isn't you, Godric," she whispered. "It doesn't have to be."
Godric's hands clenched into fists at his sides. His chest rose and fell, each breath shallow and unsteady.
Rowena rose from her seat, her expression heavy with something deeper than sadness—regret, frustration, helplessness. She swallowed hard, her gaze meeting Godric's. "I'm sorry," she said softly. "I truly am. About Raine. About Bran. About everything."
Godric let out a sharp breath through his nose, his jaw tightening. "No." He shook his head. "I don't want to hear it." His crimson eyes burned as they bore into her. "You don't know what sorry means. None of you do. If you did, you wouldn't have let Bran and the Clock Tower take her away from me."
His voice cracked slightly, but it didn't weaken—if anything, it only sharpened the raw edge of his words. He turned fully toward Rowena, stepping forward. "You've been singing the praises of that damned organization for so long. Your family's pride and joy. The great and noble Clock Tower."
His lip curled in disdain. "Telling us they keep order. That they give us a reason to feel safe. Safe for who, Rowena? For them?" He exhaled, shaking his head before looking back at her, his expression unreadable, but his eyes—his eyes carried a storm that refused to settle.
"You want sorry, Rowena?" He spread his arms wide. "This is what sorry looks like." His hands clenched into fists, his entire body trembling with the weight of his anger. "If the laws are made to punish the righteous, then to hell with their laws. To hell with their justice," he said. "And if that cursed Clock Tower thinks I'm a threat for saying it, then let them come and get me. I'm right here."
Rowena's breath caught in her throat. "Godric, I—"
A sharp beeping cut through the air.
Helga and Salazar's gazes snapped toward the sound as Rowena stiffened, reaching into her pocket with trembling fingers. She pulled out a small spherical device, the metallic surface flashing as a holographic screen projected upward. Her eyes scanned the message, and whatever she read drained the color from her face. Her breath hitched. Her grip tightened around the device.
Without another word, she turned and bolted past them.
"Row, what's wrong?!" Helga called after her, scrambling from her seat.
Rowena didn't stop, but for a brief moment, she hesitated just long enough to throw a glance over her shoulder. Her expression was stricken, her lips parted as if struggling to form the words.
Then she forced them out.
"It's Bran!" Her voice cracked. "He's hurt!"
Helga's breath caught. Salazar stiffened. His face unreadable. And Godric—Godric went still, his body locking in place, the rage momentarily eclipsed by something else. Something darker.
Shock.