Two years had passed since Louis had chosen to attend Hogwarts. Time, it seemed, moved differently in the magical world. Faster and slower all at once, woven with wonder, discovery, and the steady rhythm of growth.
In the months that followed his emotional farewell to Fleur, Louis had found himself stepping deeper into the mysteries of magic. He and Fleur remained close despite the distance. Every holiday, without fail, they saw each other—exchanging thoughts through Verba Animae and finding comfort in the rare moments spent side by side. If anything, the years had brought them closer.
Fleur was flourishing at Beauxbatons. She sent him letters enchanted with scented ink and pressed flower petals. Louis always replied with notes lined with theories, sketches of magical constructs, and the occasional charmed parchment that fluttered like a bird before delivering its message. Their connection was resilient—more than friendship, though neither dared name it.
Louis, meanwhile, had grown beyond the reach of most tutors. Appoline Delacour had gracefully stepped back from teaching him.
"You need room now," she had said with a fond but knowing look. "Room to question, to create, and maybe even to be wrong."
Though parting with her as a mentor had felt bittersweet, Louis understood. His mind was a forge now, brimming with ideas too wild and intricate for traditional lessons.
Instead, he found himself drawn more often to the quiet study of Nicolas Flamel. The legendary alchemist welcomed him warmly, offering not lessons, but conversations. They spoke of ancient magic, obscure rituals, the essence of transmutation—not in the physical, but in the spiritual. It was there that Louis felt truly seen. Not as a boy prodigy, but as a mind seeking something greater.
His birthday had come and gone quietly a few months prior. His parents, recognizing his unique path, had offered him something extraordinary. Two gifts unlike any other.
The first, a length of white wizardwood, rare and nearly sacred, known for its affinity with purity of intent and higher planes of magic.
The second, gifted by Flamel himself, was a single black phoenix feather—so rare that even Nicolas admitted to only having seen one other in his lifetime. Black phoenixes were mysterious creatures, said to be born from sorrow and fire, renewal forged not just in flame, but in pain.
Louis had wept when he held it. Not from sadness, but from understanding. The feather shimmered between silver and shadow, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat.
Now, the two lay on a velvet cloth in Flamel's study.
Nicolas watched as Louis examined the materials once again.
"You're sure about combining these?" he asked gently.
Louis nodded. "They called to me. Not just as a wand, but as something... more. A part of me."
Flamel leaned back in his armchair. "Most wizards are chosen by their wand. You would be one of the few to craft yours. It's no small task."
"I don't want a tool, Nicolas," Louis said quietly. "I want an extension of my will. A companion to my magic—not a vessel."
The older man smiled, stroking his long beard. "Then we must do this right."
He summoned a series of tomes from the shelves. Books on wandlore, magical resonance, spell imprints, and the anchoring of intent.
"The process begins not with shaping the wood," Flamel explained, opening one of the tomes to an illustration of a wand being carved by a glowing hand, "but with understanding your own nature. The wand must reflect your essence. And that, Louis, is ever changing."
Louis traced the image on the page. "So how do I fix something that's changing?"
"You don't fix it," Flamel replied. "You choose the version of yourself you want your wand to know. The one who seeks. The one who dares."
Over the next hour, they spoke of the soulprint—the magical echo that would infuse itself into the wand during its creation. It was not just about placing the feather into the wood. It was about aligning intent, memory, belief, and magical frequency. A ritual of transformation.
Louis listened intently, taking notes with a self-inking quill. He asked precise, sometimes impossible questions. Flamel answered some, redirected others, and encouraged more.
The evening sun began to set, casting golden light across the floor of the study.
Louis picked up the white wood and held it against the feather, eyes narrowing in thought.
"Do you think it's wrong to feel... uncertain, even now?" he asked.
Nicolas didn't answer right away. Instead, he stood, placing a hand on Louis's shoulder.
"There is no wand that banishes doubt," he said gently. "Only wizards who grow stronger by facing it."
Louis looked down at the materials again. They didn't look like a wand yet. Just parts. Fragments. Potential.
But somehow, in his heart, he knew they were already speaking to him.
He would begin the process soon—over the coming days. Nicolas would be there, but only as a guide. Louis wanted to shape it himself. Every line. Every rune. Every breath of magic.
As he left Flamel's home that evening, snow gently falling from the Parisian sky, Louis felt a quiet certainty settle in his chest.
His path to Hogwarts was no longer about fleeing a past or embracing a future. It was about building something entirely his own.
And it would begin with this wand.